The Games We Play
by KCS
Summary: Novel-length sequel to SecondBest Destiny. Five years after Q's appearance in the Rebooted 'verse, James T. Kirk is on a fast track to self-destruction, and not even his closest friends can convince him that as captain he's not as expendable as his crew. Epilogue now up, for anyone who was following this.
1. Prologue

**Title:** _The Games We Play_  
><strong>Author:<strong> KCS (**kcscribbler**)  
><strong>Series: <strong>AOS/TOS/TNG (Set in the Rebootverse, with elements and characters from both TOS and TNG)  
><strong>CharactersPairings: **No pairings (though if you want to read as pre-slash I suppose you can). AOS Kirk, Spock, McCoy, Uhura, Chekov, Sulu, various; Q; little bit of TOS movie-era Kirk, TOS movie-era Spock  
><strong>Genres: <strong>Friendship, h/c, angst, character study  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> (_apparent_) major character death, on a massive scale but not really graphic. Trauma, mental and emotional, surrounding that. Basic spoilers for ST:XI, ST:TOS basic canon, and for my last year's STBB, _Second-Best Destiny_. A working knowledge of the history and playing rules of chess will be helpful (and slightly spoilery).  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG-13 for trauma and CD  
><strong>Final Word Count:<strong> 59,055  
><strong>Beta:<strong> PGF  
><strong>Summary: <strong>2011 StarTrekBigBang on LiveJournal, sequel to Second-Best Destiny.

Five years after the first appearance of the Q continuum in the Rebooted universe, the refitted _Enterprise_ has set out on her second five-year mission. With the new mission comes new fame, and with that, new confidence – _over_confidence, for one still very young starship captain. James T. Kirk, now-veteran captain but still not even thirty years old, is on a fast track to potential self-destruction, and not even his closest friends aboard can seem to convince him that as captain he is not as expendable as his crew. While the sentiment behind his self-sacrificing actions is admirable, it is extremely foolish – and it seems to those who love him that nothing short of Omnipotent intervention will convince him of that fact.

Fortunately, there is one particular Omnipotent who is only too happy to interfere.

**Personal Notes: **There is absolutely _gorgeous_ artwork (watercolors, called _A King in Check_) by **Yawmin** and a fantastic fanmix by **wyntreaurora** for this novel-length fic. You can access both by clicking the homepage link on my profile or popping over to my LiveJournal (_KCScribbler_); the master post is unlocked for viewing and commenting.

**Unrelated A/N**: FF dot net appears to be eating the spaces between words that are italicized, so if you see those know that I tried to catch them but probably missed them since it does it EVERY. SINGLE. TIME. *growls*

* * *

><p><strong><em>I. Prologue<em>**

"Kirk to _Enterprise_! Beam us out, I repeat, beam us out NOW!"

Phaser fire zinged past his ear, leaving the smell of burning ozone in its wake. Two meters away, he saw Spock vault what was left of the stone wall which had been their temporary shield. You technically weren't supposed be able to evade a phaser blast, since the laser-like stream was a particle beam traveling at the speed of light; and yet somehow Spock managed it, and also managed to look amazingly graceful doing it.

Jim just ran screaming like a girl and hoped nothing hit him.

Simmons disappeared in a swirl of particles, phasers still firing on the opposition, and he breathed a mutter of thankfulness; that was the last of them except him and Spock. Sometimes he wondered if their transporter didn't have some sort of ill-omen or curse on it, given the number of times the thing had malfunctioned just when the Enterprise needed it to be at full capacity. Blowing the primary power coupling within the pad itself meant five out of the six pads were out – beaming out one at a time was dangerous for those left behind, but safer than trying to materialize without the pad's stabilization. He'd take his chances against outrunning Klingons rather than melting into a puddle of carbon-based goo upon re-materialization.

Now, as the hair on the back of his neck prickled when a shot came close enough to scorch his scalp, he was rethinking that opinion.

Spock had made his way catlike over the rubble to his captain's position, and was now regarding him with something that looked too close to Vulcan irritation than anything else. This fragile friendship they shared danced between brotherly hate and something that went far too deep into his heart for Jim to want to start analyzing, and he had the awful feeling that right now it was leaning more toward I-wish-I-had-choked-you-when-I-had-the-chance than the whole friends-brothers-lover thing Old Spock had tried to tell him about (and wasn't that just a whole different boatload of _awkward, _especially with the old man himself aboard the Enterprise right now on his way to some peace conference between Delta and planet-needs-to-buy-a-vowel).

"I believe I predicted this outcome prior to your insistent beam-down instructions. _Sir_," was all the Vulcan said, and he winced, hearing the sarcasm in the title loud and clear.

"And I believe I told you we didn't have a choice, if we wanted to prove to Command that the Klingons were responsible and not the Romulans," he shot back, firing at a madly-grinning Klingon. Yeah, today was a good day to die, evidently.

"Regarding that, I was entirely in agreement, Captain. But your presence in the landing party was both unwarranted and an unnecessary risk, indeed our presence in this matter at all, given that our primary duty is to convey the ambassadorial party to the negotiations at Delta. Drop." Jim flattened himself against the rock, and heard the whine of a deadly aim streak over where his head had been.

"Thanks. And it was _definitely _necessary; you can't intimidate a Klingon by directing from behind the business end of a starship!"

"You also cannot intimidate one if you are _dead_, Captain. Three targets incoming, twenty-five degrees."

"I'll take the left, you the other two. And I'm not dead, now am I? Therefore your argument is invalid." He smirked and shot the left-hand Klingon, who roared and charged ahead for another ten feet before a second blast finally dropped him. "Scotty, I need good news from you, buddy!"

_"Ye know as much as I do, Captain! Still can only beam out a one of you!"_

"Then what are you waiting for? We're getting roasted down here by a fully-prepared Klingon war squadron!" he demanded, yanking on Spock's arm to pull him out of the way as a boulder clattered down nearby. "Do it!"

"He is waiting," Spock intoned with infuriating calm, "because my communicator was shattered by a rock some three minutes and fifteen seconds ago. Without its transponder, he cannot lock onto my life-sign."

"Well crap."

He didn't realize he was still on an open channel until Scotty's doleful echo, somewhat more crudely phrased, sounded above the enemy fire.

He saw Spock close his eyes, which was the Vulcan equivalent of rolling them. "Indeed. Mr. Scott, kindly beam up the Captain."

"Mr. Scott, kindly ignore Commander Spock's entire lack of self-preservation," he snapped into the communicator, glaring at his First.

The age-old argument; it was pretty much a cliché by now, and while under some circumstances it was funny and a bit endearing, in times like this he just wanted to kill Spock himself. The guy just didn't get it.

But apparently the threat of Vulcan wrath was stronger than Captainal loyalty, because he felt the hairs on his arm twitch – a clear indication of a transporter lock and primary sequencing.

"So not happening on my watch," he muttered, eyes flicking over Spock's smug shoulder to the hillside behind. Then they widened, and he yanked his phaser out, shoving the communicator into the startled Vulcan's hands. "DOWN!"

Suitably obedient, Spock ducked out of his captain's line of fire and behind the nearest rock, communicator clenched unconsciously in his free hand. Jim saw the comprehension dawn just nanoseconds before the transporter lock engaged, and knew from the look on his First's face that if he survived the next ten minutes, he'd have seven kinds of hell to pay when he got back to the ship. He could remember when he'd last seen Spock so utterly furious; it had been before their first five-year mission started, and it had ended with his nearly asphyxiating on a Bridge console.

Then Spock was gone, leaving a shimmer of dissipating energy in the wake of the transport.

He turned his attention back to the approaching squadron, estimating how much time he had before Spock had terrified Chekov into modifying a sensor to indicate the difference in Klingon and human physiology in the vicinity, from there deciphering which of the life-signs was his based upon medical information. The colonists on the outpost were human, but they were on the side of the Klingons, obviously, having done the grunt work to blame the outbreaks of hostility on the Romulans in their reports to Starfleet Command. He just had to be picked out of about fifty human life-signs in this vicinity.

Maybe ten minutes? Ish? He could hold out for ten minutes.

Ducking a shower of dislodged pebbles, he scrambled up the nearest boulder set for cover. Let's see, a royally PO'd Spock, or war-hungry Klingons.

He was a dead man, either way.

* * *

><p>The worst part about this job was the waking up. Starfleet officers soon came into the habit of sleeping like the dead but being able to wake at the slightest sound. Being a bit more paranoid than most, he'd been doing that for most of his life – but as captain of the Federation's flagship, it had only grown more pronounced. He could be dreaming with all his might and snap awake on the instant if an alert sounded or someone entered his room. The resulting adrenaline rush made it impossible to return to sleep after being jolted out of it most times. The other shipboard wake-ups were more unpleasant, usually when he'd fallen asleep at his desk doing paperwork long into the night, in an effort to stay on top of everything he could so that Command never regretted giving him the Enterprise because he was too young to get his work done on time.<p>

There were also the times he woke up and had no clue where he was; it might be a planetary jail, or an enemy laboratory, or some other hostile situation – and those were the times that cold fear broke through the fuzziness of drugs or pain and brought him fully alert in a matter of instants; hostile situation, and someone was going to need him to be awake and ready with a plan in short order.

And then there were the times he woke up in his own Sickbay, painfully aware within seconds of why he was there in the first place.

This was one of those times. He cringed as awareness returned sensory perception to his auditory systems before he had managed to get his eyes open.

Bones. And Spock. And they were both going at it near his head like two vultures over a fresh roadkill.

His stomach roiled unpleasantly at the analogy, and he groaned, hoping against hope he wasn't going to be sick before he could come awake enough to roll over.

The voices stopped mid-sentence at his noise of discomfort, followed by footsteps, and he felt the glare of the lights through his eyelids dim as a shadow leaned over him.

"Jim? You awake?"

Well, concern made a nice change from the ranting he'd heard a minute ago; he tried his best to answer. All that emerged through the haze of pain medication was a tired sort of gargle, but it was enough.

A clink of instruments nearby, and the whir of a medical scanner. "Open your eyes, Jim, c'mon," he heard Bones mutter next to his ear, and while he didn't really want to he knew the guy wouldn't let it drop until he did.

His eyelids felt like ten tons of lead but he tried valiantly. "That's it; open 'em for me, Jim…gotta check your pupil response, that was one heck of a concussion you got."

Finally two small cracks of light shot through the opening straight into his aching skull, and he screwed them up again with a whimper of pain.

"Okaayyy, I'm guessin' your pupils are still dilated, then," the mutter moved away from his head, probably to check the bio-bed monitors. "Over-bed lights, ten percent. There, try again, Jim."

The fuzziness of the good stuff Bones was pumping through his system was fading slightly, leaving him more alert, and it wasn't as hard to do so this time around. Slowly cracking his eyelids, he relaxed when the dimmer light didn't send a knife into his brain this time around. He blinked a few times, and then the nearest objects came into focus.

Bones on his right, shining a small penlight into his eyes for just a second, then running a scanner over a bandage on his left temple. He blinked, sight traveling around to the dim cubicle lighting, to the table nearby, the computer monitor, his socked feet poking through the Sickbay blanket at the end of the bed, around to a very, very expressionless Spock standing silently on his other side.

Crap.

Only that particular half-Vulcan could look that pure Vulcan; he'd seen full-blooded Vulcans who had less of a poker face. Spock only looked that cold and emotionless when he was anything but. Not good. Ever since Starfleet Command had offered Spock his own captaincy last year, and Spock had told them he would think about it for six months, he and his First been practically at each other's throats over the littlest things. This latest stunt (not little) couldn't have helped matters.

"Well, the bad news is your head's hard enough to repel large chunks of rock without damaging your brain more than it already is, but you're going to have a whopper of a headache for a day or two," McCoy growled, snapping the scanner back into its protective sheath with an emphatic thwack.

"And the good news?" he asked weakly, hating how hoarse his voice sounded.

"The good news is that you're going to be in a lot of pain for a few days from the bruises you took in that fall down the hillside," the physician said, arms folded.

He reached up an aching arm to feel gingerly at the bandage on his head. "And that's _good_news?"

"Yes, because then maybe it'll be a reminder to you to stop being such a self-sacrificing idiot with no blasted sense of self-preservation!"

Now was so not the time to be having this conversation. He closed his eyes, ignoring the familiar tirade.

"Don't you just lie there and ignore me, you reckless excuse for a starship captain!"

"Doctor, this is counter-productive," Spock's voice interrupted, and he was never more glad to hear it in his life. "Repeating what the captain knows to be true accomplishes nothing and will not, apparently, change his self-destructive behavior."

Okay, so he wasn't going to let that slide. "My self-destructive behavior, as you put it, Commander," he said, opening his eyes long enough to glare at Spock, "is my own business and neither of yours."

"Anything which involves the safety of this crew complement is my business as much as yours, sir," Spock replied coldly.

"And the health of a crew member is mine," Bones added with heat.

"Therefore your increasingly blatant disregard for your own safety is encompassed by my duties as First Officer, part of which includes identifying dangers to the ship and her crew."

He wasn't clear in the head enough to have an argument-fest of these proportions. Rubbing painfully at his left temple, he tried to focus his thoughts. "You just don't get it, do you?" he finally mumbled, pain slurring the words into something less confident-sounding than he would have preferred.

"Don't get what?" was the dry retort from the angry physician. "Don't get that you apparently have no care for your own life, or that this ship could lose her captain because you refuse to let your Security force do their jobs and keep you safe?"

He bit his lip so hard he tasted blood, anger fueling adrenaline through his veins to push back the drug-induced lethargy. "You don't _get_ it," he spat, "that Starfleet isn't decimated and _desperate _anymore, and all they'd need is one good excuse to boot me and install an older, better captain!" Like Spock, actually; the thought had occurred to him more than once during the last year.

Blank astonishment showed on both faces staring down at him.

He sighed, massaging his aching head. "No one else dies on my watch, Bones," he murmured tiredly. "We sacrificed way too many supposedly 'expendable' people during the last five-year mission, so many that Command nearly didn't let us have this second one 'cause of the risks. It's not going to happen again if I can help it."

He was relieved to see some of the cold fury suddenly die in Spock's eyes as comprehension – not approval, but understanding – dawned, though his wonderfully human BFF still looked mad enough to stab him with a dozen hypos without flinching.

"Your reasoning, while understandable, is flawed, sir," the Vulcan finally spoke up, his voice gentle. "The unusually high death toll during the first five-year mission was due to inexperience and political unrest; not due to any command mistakes of yours. Taking responsibility for those casualties is as ludicrous as blaming ourselves that we two alone were not capable of defeating Nero prior to his destruction of Vulcan."

It was an old argument, and they both knew it – which didn't negate its truthfulness. He was glad that they could talk about it now without the agonizing pain-clarity of years past, but knowing was different than believing, and he still wouldn't ever believe that he didn't shoulder the responsibility for his crew.

He shook his head slowly, regretting the motion when pain spiked through his left eyeball. "I'm not having this discussion right now with either of you," he said through a clenched jaw. He'd never before felt like he had to justify himself so often toward his closest subordinates, and he didn't like it. "If you want to have me on the carpet for whatever you think I did that makes me unfit for command, then you can do it once I can see straight. Until then, leave me and my command decisions alone. See that we continue on our way to Delta as soon as Command gives the okay to leave the system."

He closed his eyes against the startled silence, and carefully tuned out whatever was said after that; he wouldn't apologize for saving Spock's life before his own, any more than he'd apologize for beaming out his brave and so very young Security team before the Command team. It wasn't regulation, but he believed it was the right thing to do – and they were all alive now, so what was the big deal?

* * *

><p>Omnipotence by definition meant not being constrained by the bounds of time; three billion light-years and four universes away, the thought-waves and effectcause time awareness rippled against the consciousness of an entity who had, in all honesty, completely forgotten about a tiny little splinter universe floating in the flux of alternate time-stream, in favor of wreaking fantastically brilliant havoc among a dozen non-corporeal races on the verge of destroying themselves in a telepathic war.

"Really, little captain mine," he sniffed, sending one last thought-bomb into the fray and applauding with glee as the combatants scattered, wailing, under its impact. "I just can't leave you pathetic humans alone for more than a half-decade, can I."

Pleas for mercy flickered against his awareness from the beings he was toying with, and he sighed. "Yes, yes, begone with you," he muttered, waving a hand and resetting their mental ecology with one thought. A wry smirk twisted the Omnipotent's mouth, and he rubbed his hands in anticipatory glee.

"Cleanup on aisle five," Q chortled, as he disappeared into the void of time-space.


	2. Opening Gambit:  En Prise

**_II. Opening Gambit_**

* * *

><p><strong><em>En Prise: French for "in a position to be taken," referring to any piece left open to capture without loss to the player making the capture<em>**

Three days later, and the elephant in the room wasn't shrinking but rather procreating.

Jim had returned to duty after forty-eight hours in Sickbay under McCoy's dermal regenerator, with no ill effects other than a lingering headache when his blood pressure spiked occasionally and the fact that McCoy was barely speaking to him.

Whatever. He wasn't going to apologize for doing the right thing, and Bones could wait until Sol went nova if he wanted to. At least Old Spock (the ambassador came as close to cracking up as a Vulcan could when Jim called him that, so he had never changed the method of address) still came to see him during his stay and didn't verbally eviscerate him for his actions. Granted, disappointment was just as hard to ignore as chilly anger, but at least he had someone to talk to who didn't think he was an idiot.

Spock was slightly less cool toward him – by that meaning, instead of glacial just frigid – which wasn't saying much since it wasn't like the Vulcan was demonstrative at the best of times. It was eating at Jim, though; he really had no idea how much he depended on Spock's unwaveringly loyal backup until he suddenly found himself without it due to his own actions. Vulcan loyalty had to be earned, and earned hard; he'd found that out for himself even before destiny-cheating conversations with his older counterpart. And in the six years that he'd known Spock (both of them), he'd come to depend on that almost more than was healthy. Who needed Starfleet Command's endorsement, if you had a Vulcan on your side?

And now he might very well be losing that Vulcan, because Spock's six months were up in less than two weeks. The Vulcan had told Command to ask him again in half a year, and that half-year was almost gone. And if the strain on their relationship was any indication, the amount of bickering over silly things that they'd done more of lately than ever before…Jim didn't want to think about what it might mean to a Vulcan who loathed (and rightfully so, Jim believed in IDIC as much as the next person) both drama and human emotion. The idea that he might find himself warping into battle without the one person who'd been both anchor, friend, and protector for half a decade was enough to make him sick, like the idea of sawing off his own arm with a blunt butter knife. He'd become so dependent on Spock's unswerving loyalty that the idea of trying to lead a starship without it was…terrifying, if he would admit it to himself.

Which only made things that much worse, when Spock refused to back him up on a venture (case in point right now), and made it clear that Jim's actions were as idiotic as they sounded. Jim was usually right, and no one disputed that – but it didn't change the fact that his methods were unorthodox and, to use a now cliché catchword, illogical. Theirs was a relationship built on eclectic interests, shared hardship, mutual enemies, the joy of friendly argument over anything and everything – they were so much pure friends that Jim thought of the Vulcan as more of his brother than Sam ever had dreamed of being.

And yes, like all strong-willed siblings, they fought more often than any other two people aboard, but even more so of late.

Usually Jim would make the first move to instigate reconciliation, since it was usually his emotional outbursts that triggered the avalanche, but in this case – nothing doing. He was right, and he wasn't going to convince Spock of that fact; so he wasn't even going to try. The duty shifts came and went in chilly, silent competence, for three days after his leaving Sickbay.

It took him overhearing Chekov's warning to Sulu as the young pilot took his position one morning, to realize that the situation was getting out of hand, and affecting his crew's morale.

Sulu had taken one wary look around, meeting the wide eyes of his console-mate before sliding into his seat. "Mom and Dad fighting again?" he asked in an undertone, wary of Vulcan hearing.

Or human, since Jim was in his chair signing off on fuel reports, and heard the question clearly. Utterly taken aback, he glanced up to see Chekov's warning affirmative and the furtive looks both men cast around the Bridge.

This had to stop, if it was affecting his crew like this. And right or wrong, it was his responsibility to stop it.

He really, really hated being in charge and having to play the adult sometimes.

"Mr. Spock, a word in my ready room?" he asked with perfect politeness. Handing the report padds off to a handy yeoman, he strode toward the turbolift without checking to see that his First was following him. "Lieutenant Sulu, you have the Bridge."

Spock moved into place beside him without a word, and Jim knew he didn't imagine the collective sigh of relief he heard from the crew before the lift doors closed.

* * *

><p>"Look, I know you have issues with me right now, and you're entitled to your opinion – but the alpha shift crew's jumping at shadows because of us and it has to stop," he said as the door opened to the small Captain's Ready Room, the installation of which he had personally requested during their overhaul prior to the second five-year mission. He strode purposefully through the opening left by the silent doors. "Whatever your problems are with me – and I admit maybe I deserve the cold shoulder you're giving me – but we have to…holy <em>crap<em>."

He stopped so short that Spock literally slammed into him, then backpedaled neatly with a murmured apology which was aborted upon sight of the room's interior.

"Ah…I have the vague feeling we're not in Kansas anymore," Jim muttered in disbelief.

Spock ignored the pop culture reference, like he ignored anything Jim said which didn't make much sense literally, but he was way too taken aback to comment on his First's lack of ancient Terran movie knowledge. Because where his private briefing room was supposed to be, was now a plush, ornately-furnished set of walls, carpeting, and furniture – the opulent décor vaguely reminiscent of a late nineteenth-century gentlemen's club, from pictures he'd seen in art classes.

Whatever it was, it was gorgeous – and completely _not_supposed to be in his ready room.

"Out," he murmured succinctly, and whirled around to get out of the room before whatever transformation had taken place made its way to them.

"Captain." He saw then what Spock had no doubt already ascertained.

The door was gone, having melted seamlessly into the tapestry-hung walls.

"Computer, override exit in Captain's Ready Room, voice authorization Kirk, James T., Captain," he snapped.

Silence.

"Okay, that's not good."

"An understatement," Spock agreed with unruffled equanimity. "We may hypothesize that either the interior of your ready room has changed, or that we are no longer within said room. If the former, something is interfering with the ship's computer systems; if the latter, we have been forcibly removed from the _Enterprise _without knowledge of being so, an impressive feat of technology."

"Just listen to him," a voice rang out with cheerful taunting behind him. "Make sure you keep this one, Mon Capitaine. How does that quaint little saying go – Behind every great leader is a genius who does all the grunt work? But…you may not be keeping him for much longer, hm? Rumor has it that your Vulcan shadow's about to become his own man, isn't that right?"

He hadn't heard that voice – that unmistakable and unforgettable voice – in over five years. And it absolutely scared him to death.

"Q," he breathed, whipping around, hand hovering over a non-existent phaser. Security backup was out of the question, and besides he knew nothing would work on this being; they were once again at the mercy of a mischievous omnipotent who delighted in wreaking havoc among humans with little care for their lives and feelings.

Spock looked slightly ill, and Jim didn't blame him; the consequences of Q's last visit had been highly unpleasant for him.

But, he had dealt with this guy once before, and he could do it again; and he now had five years' experience under his belt. He wasn't the 'Fleet's child-captain anymore; he could handle a minor deity just fine, thank you.

"Love what you've done with the place, Q. Turned from professional busy-body to interior decorator, then?" he asked, eyebrows raised innocently.

Q looked highly affronted, sprawled in the depths of a leather chair and idly contemplating a tri-D chess set which was on the cherrywood table before him. "Really, James, must every introduction with you be either an outmoded pickup-line or an insult?" He set the black king down on the board and then, attention limit reached, shoved it out of the way in favor of a stack of leather-bound portfolios and matching writing utensils. "I had hoped that the passage of five years would at least afford you some manners, if not experience. I see I was in error."

"What are you doing here, Q?" he snapped, ignoring the insults. "You promised that you would leave us alone – is your word worth so little in the universe that you can break it without compromising your own sense of being?"

"Oooh, and you've learned to argue dimensional morality like a Vulcan, too!" The being looked up at him with a knowing smirk, giving an exaggeratedly slow round of sarcastic applause. "Tell me, how else has your beloved Spock – both of them – rubbed off on you, friend James?"

"Leave them out of this. I don't answer to you, Q," he retorted, fists clenched. Spock remained silently watchful at his side, fully aware of their helplessness in the hands of this omnipotent being.

In an instant the man had vanished, only to reappear inches behind them, nearly making them both jump. "Oh, but you do, Captain," Q said with a predatory smile, circling them slowly. "You have forgotten, that you _do_."

Jim felt the blood drain from his face, because it had been next to impossible to beat this entity the last time they had met; and his universe had been on the line as penalty for losing. He thought they had reached an agreement, and in fact remembered that agreement. The trouble was that if Q reneged on the deal there was little that Jim or anyone else could do to stop him from destroying their worlds with a snap of his fingers.

"You agreed to remain apart from our universe and our lives, Q, if we passed your tests." Bless Spock, always there with a calm answer when Jim felt like screaming his frustration at the world.

"And so I shall," the being declared, smiling in a decidedly less menacing way. Jim wasn't sure whether to be relieved or freaked out. "I am simply plagued by a slight problem, my dear captain. An unfortunate affliction, a terribly human impulse which I am at something of a loss to explain…" A limp, noncommittal gesture of one thin hand, and Q continued with a shrug. "And yet, it exists, and so here I am."

Spock's eyebrow clearly said _yeah, sure_. Jim looked incredulously at the figure before him. "You want to run that by me again in Standard?"

Q glared at him, hands fisted petulantly on his hips. The mockery of a Starfleet command gold uniform made the gesture look even more ridiculous; Jim was hard-pressed not to laugh.

"I'm here because you are a proverbial thorn in my side that simply won't be ignored, James Tiberius Kirk," Q informed him bluntly. "You are transversing a fast path to self-destruction, and I did not spare your universe five years ago to have you get yourself killed before you've reached the age of thirty-five. You are about to completely discard all chance you have of fulfilling your destiny, and I am the unfortunate one who will have to answer for not _snuffing_ your universe when I began to do so five years ago. Is that sufficiently _clear _for your pathetic little brain to comprehend, hm?"

He blinked. "What, so this is some sort of A Christmas-Carol-esque visit, showing me the things that Have Been and Will Be? Please." He decided to roll with the illusion, and hooked one of the leather chairs with his left foot, yanking it towards him. "Pull the other leg, Q."

Rolling his eyes, Q snapped his fingers, and the chair disappeared just before Jim's backside touched it, depositing him neatly on the floor with a slightly damaged dignity.

Spock wordlessly extended a hand to help him up. His silence was highly indicative, and Jim resisted the urge to squirm uncomfortably. The conversation sounded far too much like their most recent argument, and the fact that Spock was making no move to verbally back him up was far more terrifying than the idea that he had a ruthless deity standing in front of him.

Amid a showy flash of light, Q was now seated in his chair, lounging back and toying pensively with a silver letter-opener he had lifted from the desk set before him. "You have changed much in five years, captain mine," he finally said, flicking a glance upward.

"I would hope so," he retorted.

"And not all for the better," the deity shot back, pointing the letter-opener at him. "You previously were no more harmful than insufferably cocky."

He scowled. "And now?"

The letter opener dropped, and Q folded his hands on the desk, looking up at them with what appeared to be honesty. "Now, you are no longer cocky; you are self-confident. And that, my young friend, is far more dangerous than the recklessness of inexperienced youth."

A sick feeling began deep within his stomach, and slowly began burning its way up to his throat. "I don't know what you're talking about," he mumbled.

Q's eyebrows had evidently been taking lessons from Spock's, because one of them inclined precariously. "Don't you? Well perhaps you are, after all, Starfleet's ignorant child-captain. Let us recap, little one, shall we? Have a seat."

"I'll pass. Fool me once, shame on you; twice, shame on me?" he responded dryly.

Q smirked, but only snapped his fingers twice. Jim was deposited into the nearest chair with no warning, followed shortly by his obviously disgruntled – and still silent – First Officer into the next seat.

"You really need to grow up, Q."

"So I have been told, by far more socially advanced beings than you, James. Now." The deity clapped his hands and a miniature game board materialized before him. A snap of fingers, and a toy-sized replica of the Enterprise appeared on a small pedestal. "Lesson one: This is –"

"I'm not in the mood for games, Q," he snapped, flicking the toy _Enterprise _across the checkered board, whereupon it toppled sadly onto its side.

The being sighed and righted the small starship with care. "You were _far _more fun when you were young and reckless, you know," he said with evident irritation. "If I wished to deal with someone without a shred of sense of humor, I'd be talking to the resident walking database, or hopping a few centuries into your future, as your Enterprise-D crew were far more enjoyable to torment. Have you ever attempted to understand Klingon humor?"

"No," Jim said flatly.

"It is an acquired taste," Spock interjected blandly, with a tone of complete boredom which made Jim want to laugh and hug him.

The Omnipotent was observing him shrewdly. "Hm, so you aren't as irritated with him as you appeared to be when you walked into this room," Q mused. "Or is it that ridiculously human tendency to unite against a common enemy?"

"Or just simply that we don't like you."

An affronted pout. "Why, I am cut to the quick, friend James, for I pride myself in being one of the most spectacular of beings in the multiverse. What could you possibly have an objection to?"

"To that which characterizes your very existence," Spock replied. "Intellect without discipline. Power, without constructive purpose. Such are incompatible with Vulcan philosophy and human goodwill; therefore, Q, I object to _you_." (1)

Lol, Vulcan burn. Jim loved it.

"And I object to being bored out of my head with melodramatic tedium," he said from around an over-blown yawn. "I presume you have a point somewhere in all this other than telling me I'm, quote, _no fun anymore_?"

Q's sharp eyes fixed him in place, a creeping sensation crawling over him as he settled uneasily in the plush chair. More game pieces of some sort popped into existence on the game board before him. Looking down, he saw that they were tiny replicas of his crew.

"Look, Spock, we're action figures!" Grinning, he held up the toy-sized replications of himself and the Vulcan. Okay, so he was still ticked off, but it was pretty cool – no hero was really a hero until he had his own action figure line.

Spock's eyebrows told him how juvenile he was being, but he didn't really care. He plopped the two figures back down on the game board, moving them around the flat surface for a second until their plasticene hands were shaking underneath the floating Enterprise. He scooted the figure of McCoy over to stand with them, grinning at the frozen pose of hands on hips and a plastic scowl firmly in place – it was perfect.

"Do they come with accessories?" he asked without thinking, wondering if there were miniature phasers and tricorders coming with Q's next whim. He moved the hand of his figure up to poke the plastic Bones's stiff arm, laughing to himself all the while.

Annnnd he suddenly realized: he was playing with _toys_, in front of his First Officer (who was Vulcan, and who at the moment thought he was a moron anyhow) and a multi-dimensional Omnipotent.

He didn't need a mirror, Spock's Vulcan version of a facepalm, or Q's highly pleased smirk to know he was blushing to the roots of his hair.

"Right, so," he coughed, scooting his chair back an inch or two from the figures. "What was the point of this again?"

"You may keep the visual aids at the end of the lesson if you desire, James," Q said with a charmed grin, legs crossed and hands folded on his knees.

The burn in his cheeks spread to his ears, and he resisted the urge to tell the deity where he could shove his visual aids.

Q for once took mercy on him and continued, waving a hand over the game board and re-arranging the pieces. "You successfully completed your first five-year mission almost exactly one year and six months ago," he said, indicating the toy _Enterprise_, which now appeared battered and in need of repairs. "While you had stellar success stories, the Admiralty," Jim choked back a laugh at the tiny caricatured replica of Admiral Komack which appeared on a small pedestal, "was not best pleased about the unusually high death toll among your crew."

His amusement faded with the visual appearance of several well-known crewmen who had been casualties of the first five-year mission. "We were too inexperienced to be given the kind of missions we were – it's just that the 'Fleet was decimated after Nero and it takes three years, minimum, to build a starship," he murmured, knowing better than anyone how high the cost had been to their already obliterated young officers' ranks. "We did the best we could, but the cost was higher than any other ship in the Fleet because…" he swallowed.

"Because you were the youngest, and most inexperienced, Captain in the 'Fleet," Q finished for him – not unkindly, but with cheerful matter-of-factness. "It goes with the territory, friend James."

"The captain was the most logical choice for his position, and carried out his duties to the best of his not-inconsiderable abilities," Spock suddenly spoke up for the first time, and Jim was somewhat surprised – pleasantly so – to hear the tinge of hidden anger in his voice. "The death toll of the first five year mission was a cumulative effect of little experience and poor decision-making on the part of Starfleet Command, coupled with the factors of coincidence and the psychological effects on Starfleet enlistees following the Battle of Vulcan."

Well, Spock, you're a decent sort after all. He nudged his action figure closer to the Vulcan's, and slung its plastic arm over the blue-clad shoulders.

Judging from the amused look he got from the Vulcan, the first in several days, his fond message had been received and understood.

Q threw up his hands in dramatic exasperation. "The multiverse does not revolve around your petty psychological problems, James; I was not censuring you and your command," he said, hands clenched in his hair. "I was making a _point_, before you so rudely interrupted my explanations!"

Jim rolled his eyes. "I beg your pardon; do continue."

A flash of light, and the figures rearranged into different positions on the game board.

"The point is, that you and this child-crew of yours grew much in that five years," Q continued, gesturing toward the replicas of his primary alpha-shift Bridge crew. "Both in abilities and experience. You, as captain, also have grown in your ability to command and in your skills as a diplomat, especially the primary one such to the endangered Vulcan population."

"And that's a bad thing?" he asked incredulously.

"No, but this is," Q responded, changing the pieces around to where Jim stood on one side of the board facing off against the rest of his crew. "With that experience comes self-confidence, and there is a fine line, friend James, between self-confidence and _over_-confidence. You have long since fallen over that line."

He honestly had no idea what Q was talking about…and perhaps that was the problem, if one existed. He wasn't above trying to understand, though he reserved the right to disagree. "Explain."

Q snapped his fingers, and the familiar faces of an alien race appeared amongst the figures of a landing party, molded into plastic figures. Jim's hands clenched on the arms of the chair at the sight.

"The second week out on this second mission, a supposedly peaceful observational landing party on the planet Beta Orphus. You skimmed, not read, your official briefing, and neglected to ask your communications chief what gestures in the Orphean culture could be construed as aggression."

He lowered his gaze in shame. "You don't have to remind me," he said quietly.

"It was an understandable oversight, and has happened to better commanders – but the important point of note, James, is that it did _not_happen during your first mission," Q said pointedly. "You were so worried about slipping up before your superiors, that you over-prepared for every eventuality, in those uncertain days."

He couldn't well deny it; he had been so paranoid over the idea that one wrong move would cost him his ship, that even Spock had come to him informing him that he was going to kill himself trying to outdo his more experienced and older counterparts.

Q snapped his fingers again, and the alien race disappeared. In their place materialized figures of a landing party including himself and Bones, as well as a few Security and Medical personnel. "The landing party sent to categorize viable plant life on an uncharted planet, assigned the designation M-1441."

He winced at the phantom pain that flared in his spinal nerves. "That was so not my fault."

"Of course it was your fault," Q snapped, manipulating his figure to face off against that of his First Officer. "You were reminded of regulations by your pet Vulcan, ignored the one that says a Security team is to beam down to an uncharted planet before a ranked officer, and were attacked by an intelligent plant life-form when you did, which left you paralyzed for three days. Had it not been for the quite admirably quick research and experiment of your Chief Medical Officer, you would still be in that state."

Okay, so it technically _was _his fault. Still.

The game board changed again to a host of various alien races in toy form, all in brightly-colored costumes and ceremonial clothing. "If you still require convincing: the Peace Negotiations at Babel, this time last year?" Q asked pointedly.

He felt his ears burn again. "Okay so I did throw the first punch but he asked for it, making a slur about the Vulcan colony like that –"

"The important detail being that you, a Starfleet officer, did indeed lay the first blow, however deserved," the being snorted. "Had it not been for the combined ambassadorial efforts of your precious Mr. Spock – both of them, actually – at that gathering you might have found yourself forced to accept the death-challenge from the insulted Gorn. As it stood, while your getting soundly trounced in a fight with a being three times your body mass was enjoyable for spectators it did nothing for the peace negotiations and even less for your state of health."

"But –"

"The landing party on Planet Zeta IV. Again, ignoring protocol, and explicitly breaking security regulations in wandering off alone. Really, James – falling down a ravine due to nothing more than your own idiocy?" Q waved a hand over the board, changing it into the scene designated. "Shore leave on Rigel IX; surely you know better than to trawl intergalactic cantinas without your required Security backup or a communicator." The game board morphed into a different scene. "Skirmish with the Romulans along the sixth sector of the Neutral Zone three months ago. Deliberate disregard for beaming into a hostile situation; you were cut down before you even completed transport. Luckily your First Officer saved your insufferably stupid self yet again. Do you pay him what he's worth, mon capitaine? For he does the job of four men in trying to compensate for your recklessness."

The words hit him like a slap in the face, only made worse by the fact that Spock's weary gaze was directed blankly at the table and not at him; it wasn't like him to not make eye contact even when angry or frustrated.

Was he really that bad?

"And the crowning touch," Q said with a wry flourish, waving both hands over the board, "and that which brings me here to your humble little home-away-from-home. Outpost 72." The figures of himself and his landing party faced off against remarkably fierce-looking toy Klingon warriors backed by a tiny Bird-of-prey, and he cringed internally. "You were reminded multiple times of the inherent dangers in beaming down to the outpost instead of contacting the Klingon ship directly. You refused to listen to sound advice from your subordinates, and ended up walking directly into the intended Klingon trap."

"We all got out alive," he said through clenched teeth.

"That is not the point!" Q exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air. "You beamed your Security team out first, James!" Carelessly knocking the red-shirted figures off the board to leave only Jim's figure and Spock's versus the Klingons, the Omnipotent leaned over the board, inches from the captain's face. "And you nearly died that afternoon – for the, what?" he directed the inquiry to Spock.

The Vulcan barely glanced up. "Seventeenth," he murmured, almost reluctantly.

"Seventeenth time in twelve months! You cannot tell me that in each case you were not to blame. That is the worst record for deadly risk to a ship's captain in the history of Starfleet – and what is more, it's worse than your record for the _first _five-year mission!" Q lifted the gold-shirted figure from the board and waved it to emphasize his point. "A starship captain is not a white knight, to throw himself without care into each possible conflict. You are not expendable!"

"And neither are they!" he finally shouted, slamming the figures of his Security squad back onto the playing field with enough force that it toppled the small replicas of the Enterprise and the Klingon ship. Somehow he was on his feet again, staring down this insufferable being who presumed to tell him how to command his ship. "You don't get it any more than Spock does, do you, Q?" His voice sharpened into an icy hone of suppressed rage. "I. will. _not_. have _anyone _else die for me!"

Peripherally he saw Spock's resigned gaze soften in sympathy, though not in agreement, but he had no time to pay attention to his First's issues with his commands – Q was looming over him, nose to nose, iron will to iron will.

"And that is exactly why you will be dead inside a year if you continue on this path, James Kirk," Q said quietly, deadly. "Your job is to captain this ship, these people of yours, and to keep the ship safe and able to perform her purpose. These people whose lives you apparently simply _must_control signed on to this ship for the express purpose of keeping you alive and able to do so. You are disrespecting their jobs, their capabilities, and their right to spend their lives how they choose, by refusing to let them do their jobs properly and refusing to do yours. You are at fault here, and no one else, Captain mine – and it is you who will pay the eventual price for that refusal."

Like a flood of icy water, the idea washed over him, swamping him in a wave of shock – he had honestly never thought of it that way before.

Spock's eyes were on him now, pleading with him to understand, to listen, to realize.

No. He was a nobody, a cocky cadet from Iowa who'd gotten lucky beyond belief during the Nero disaster. As good as he was at his job by this point, he wasn't any more deserving to live than the greenest Ops recruit straight out of the Academy.

He was not going to have any of these kids' bloods on his conscience.

Q must have seen the stubborn set of his jaw, the relentlessness in his eyes, because the game board disappeared along with all pretense of lighthearted discussion.

"You are going to realize who you are and what part you play in this game we call life, James," the being said with deadly solemnity, all levity vanished. The change was actually really frightening; he could feel the beginning flutters of panic in his stomach. Q being a jerk he could deal with, Q messing with his head and showing off his skills he could totally counter – but this, this deadly intensity of absolute unyielding truth? He had no clue.

"And if you do not come to that realization, Captain Kirk," Q continued quietly, "then it will cost you more than you would ever wish to pay."

He swallowed, willing confidence he did not feel into his voice. "Explain."

"No."

Blinking, he stared at the Omnipotent, who only looked coolly back at him, arms folded like a petulant child. "What?"

"Oh, come now; even if you are not a linguistics expert surely you can comprehend the single word. No, negative, nein, nyet, no can do –"

"What do you mean you won't explain?" he snapped. "Last time you were here you took great pleasure in laying out for us exactly what rat-maze you were sending us through."

"And this time I am telling you nothing, James," the being said flatly. "You are in no mood to consider my words or those more qualified ones of your crew – and therefore you deserve no hints, no explanations. Learn your lessons, and you not only will see me again but will survive to fill your full and best destiny. Refuse to learn," Q leaned across the table, eyes menacing, "and you and everything you love will be destroyed – and not by my hand, James. By _yours_."

"But learn what lessons?" he asked helplessly, resorting to panicked pleas instead of the self-assured swagger he usually relied on.

"That would be telling," Q responded sweetly. "You have one week."

Aghast, he shot Spock a helpless glance. The Vulcan only looked back at him, equally powerless, and gave a minute shrug as if to say _what do you want me to do, it isn't my fault._

"Oh, I nearly forgot!" Q fairly bounced around the table, clapping his hands. "A hint, friend James. Since one of the lessons in question is a matter of trust – reliance, in other words, on this crew whose purposes you seem to have misconstrued – I think a practical demonstration will be in order for the duration."

He was not in the mood for games, and judging from the growing smirk on the entity's face he was not going to like this one at all. "A…practical demonstration?"

"Yes, of course, a handicap if you will, to inspire that trust which you seem so unwilling to give out. "

Q's maniacal grin filled the room as his hand raised Jim's direction. The blinding flash of light and Spock's sudden alarmed dash from his chair were the last things he saw before his vision blacked out completely.

* * *

><p>(1) Almost directly quoted from Spock's opinion of Trelane in <em>The Squire of Gothos<em>


	3. Opening Gambit: Blockade

**_Blockade: the severe restraint of an opponent's position so that it is difficult for him to find active play_**

He was a starship captain, and they were cut from a pretty sturdy cloth. What's more, he was arguably the most famous starship captain in Starfleet history up to this point – and starship captains were known for their steel nerves. He was no different. He could handle anything any entity would throw at him, no problem – chaos, death, destruction, genocide, illness, emotional havoc. He was good.

Okay, he was terrified.

Who wouldn't be, when someone you know is an omnipotent deity just made you completely and totally _blind_?

He fumbled forward slightly for the tabletop, clenching the edge of it in an effort to steady himself. He hadn't blacked out, he had literally _been_blacked out – it was total and complete, far more than a blindfold would be. He was literally blind, the utter void of color or light pressing in on his now useless eyes, enough to almost choke him. From somewhere to his right Spock's voice broke its way gently through the sensory-deprivational roaring in his ears.

"Captain? Captain, are you all right?"

"Fine," he managed, taking a deep breath before continuing bluntly, "other than the fact that I'm totally blind."

The startled silence told him that his blindness must not be visible on his face in any way (which was a relief, as he liked his baby blues the way they were, thank you), and then he heard the screeeeak of Spock's chair being moved out of the way.

Wait, the chairs had been changed from that horribly ergonomic blend into plush and leather – and they should slide noiselessly across the carpet, not squeak on durasteel?

"Q?" he asked.

"He vanished with his theatrics a moment ago, Captain, along with the unusual décor of this room."

He jumped as Spock's voice sounded close to his ear. "Good grief, we're gonna have to get you a bell," he said, hoping the slightly hysterical edge wasn't too pronounced. He was calm, he could handle this. Q wasn't gone for good, he hadn't even gloated yet about what he'd done, they were going to be fine. He was fine.

Okay, he was freaking out.

Velour brushed whisper-soft against his wrist, and he instantly latched onto the sleeve with one hand, desperately hoping his frantic terror wouldn't seep through the physical contact. He had to ground himself before he had a panic attack like he hadn't had since the beginning of his captaincy...

Any time now, would be good.

"Jim. _Jim_." He didn't realize he was shaking until a strong grip shifted him from the table. One icy hand turned his face, the other gripped his shoulder. He latched onto both thin wrists with a grip of desperation, biting back the plea for help which tried to fall.

"You must regulate your breathing, Captain, else you will do yourself harm," the calm voice filtered through his panic with accuracy and gentle reassurance.

"…Right," he gasped, trying to focus on the cold fingers against his face instead of the feeling of choking in utter darkness. "No big deal, yeah?"

"I daresay it is, actually," was the dry reply, and his answering laugh was a bit hysterical. "Q has most definitely overstepped his bounds."

"Y'think?" His voice was slowly returning to its normal pitch, lulled from panic by the calm support. "Okay, tell me the truth – can you tell I'm blind from looking at me?"

"Negative," was the immediate response. "Your eyes appear as they always have; no one should be able to discern your…impairment, by visual appearance alone."

"Well, small favors. Um…I'd really like to sit down now?" he asked weakly. Spock's hands slipped to his arms, walking him backward two paces to his discarded chair.

Yeow. Q took the comfy ones with him, apparently. He absently noted the need for a requisition to Starfleet for briefing room furniture which didn't make his spine whimper.

In lieu of scrabbling at useless eyes, he tightly clenched his hands on the table. "Okay," he muttered, sitting stiffly upright and turning his head where he thought Spock had last been. "You can go ahead with the epic I-told-you-so."

"I shall do nothing of the kind," Spock replied gently, from his left side, and he heard another chair being drawn up. "Whatever our disagreements, they are no longer of any importance in comparison."

"Thanks," he said shakily. "Did you catch any clue about what Q intends to do with us, other than the obvious?" he gestured indiscriminately toward his face.

"Negative."

"You think if I say I've learned my lesson now he'll change this?"

"I doubt it, as he seems to require visual proof of such. And…have you, truly?" The gentle humor in the reproof made him grin; Spock knew which buttons to push to annoy him, and which would only make him get his tail in gear.

"Probably not," he replied ruefully. "You still haven't quite convinced me that I'm wrong, if that's what you're saying."

"I am saying nothing," the Vulcan replied primly.

He snorted, wiping his perspiring face with his sleeve. "Right. So…I take it he's really not coming back, then?"

"It would appear not, at least not into this conversation," was the reply, and Jim could tell Spock was thinking just from the intense inflection. He could almost see the eyebrows doing their thing; never thought he would actually miss that. "However, I must admit – I fail to see the purpose of his inflicting this…condition, upon you."

He sighed, head drooped over his arms. "I see it. It's a trust issue, Spock. If I can't see anything, then I'm totally reliant on my surroundings and the people who inhabit them. We both know I have trust issues, that's no secret."

"It remains still a drastic method of teaching such a lesson."

A wet laugh broke from his tightened lips. "Yeah, well, I don't usually respond to subtle, now do I."

"I have noted the fact, sir."

He laughed, and fumbled for a brief second to find Spock's arm and pat it in a gesture of comradeship. All disagreements between them were forgotten in the face of a new threat, and he began to wonder ruefully if that wasn't becoming a pattern with them. If it was, and it took one of them nearly getting killed or something drastic happening to get them to reconcile their differences, then there definitely was a problem. IDIC meant using one's unique differences to complement another's, to form a team which would function as a cohesive and effective whole.

He drew in a deep breath, willing his nerves to calm. Or at least to not be on the verge of utter, unmitigated panic.

"All right, Mr. Spock. Let's get this over with. Please call in the command crew so we can update them on this new development. Then McCoy can relieve me until further notice and turn the ship over to you."

He was quite proud of the fact that there was no real bitterness in his last sentence, only resignation. Spock hesitated, he could tell that much. "That may not be necessary, Captain," the Vulcan finally said. "At present we are many light-years from anything which may require your immediate and visual attention; simple medical relief, as would happen after any injury, will suffice, and will not deprive you of your command functions."

In other words, I won't take your ship from you even if you're so handicapped you can't do anything but sit in your chair.

Sometimes he thought he could (or should, for practicality's sake if nothing else) marry this guy, seriously.

A smile perked at the corners of his mouth. "Your sound advice is always appreciated, Mr. Spock."

"I endeavor to please, sir," was the dry reply, and he could fairly feel the Vulcan preening. "Our next destination is not for another four days; ample time to finalize plans regarding this new situation."

_"Bridge to Captain's Ready Room,"_the comm squawked from the monitors in front of him.

"Um…"

He was grateful for Spock's quick, matter-of-fact guiding his hand to the position of the monitor screen before the Vulcan flicked the comm switch. "What is it, Mr. Sulu?"

_"Planet, dead ahead, sir, Mr. Spock. Were we supposed to be that close to one?"_

"Negative. There is no record of a planet in this sector of this system."

"But the charts of this system are haphazard and some were damaged due to that widespread computer virus that wiped part of the Fleet database last year; that's part of the reason they're sending us out here," Jim pointed out. "We're basically a glorified stellar-cartography vessel for the next two weeks while we take the Vulcan negotiating party to the conference at Delta."

_"In other words, something to do, finally?"_

He grinned at the young pilot's enthusiasm. "Apparently."

"I will be up momentarily, Mr. Sulu," Spock's voice slid in gently in accompaniment, so smoothly that no one listening would realize he was, in effect, assuming command. "Have Mr. Chekov run initial scans of the planet's surface and assume standard orbit."

_"Aye, sir. Bridge out."_

He sighed, rubbing at useless eyes. "I'd better head to Medical, then, while you do that. Think you can brief everyone on my…condition, so I won't have to?" It was the coward's way out, but at this point he really didn't care.

"Of course. But first I will accompany you to Sickbay."

"If you just get me to the turbolift, I can take it from there; it opens on the main ward."

"Nevertheless. I suspect you will need a sort of buffer between yourself and our volatile Chief Medical Officer, especially given the…strained relations, between yourselves at the moment."

He aimed a friendly punch at where he guessed the Vulcan's shoulder was and (embarrassingly) missed completely. Spock carefully ignored the fact. "Thanks, Spock."

* * *

><p>Bones <em>flipped<em>. _Out_.

That wasn't exactly unexpected, and it was kind of entertaining, but the best thing was that apparently being ticked off at Q completely obliterated being ticked off with Jim Kirk. He'd barely explained what had happened, still trying to get used to the idea himself (shock, his brain supplied helpfully, when he wondered half-aloud why he wasn't freaking out more than he was), when he was thoroughly shocked to find himself, not flat on his back under a medical scanner, but jolted unceremoniously into an enormous hug.

"Ah…didn't see that coming," he practically squeaked, awkwardly patting Bones's back with one hand. "Literally," he added as an afterthought, with a snort of not-really-laughter. It was weird, though, how this guy knew exactly what he needed and when. Jim was a tactile person, a toucher – one who had no personal space bubble and ignored everyone else's. His crew for the most part either loved it or took it in good stride; a friendly clap on the shoulder or slap on the back, an elbow when he passed in the corridors, a cuff to the back of the head when someone was being a moron on duty – he liked contact with his crew, and they in turn didn't seem to mind. (Now if he could just get Spock to reciprocate and learn the all-important human ritual of The Fist-bump, his life would be _complete_.)

But this…being cut off from everything visual, not knowing where things and people were and not being able to see anything except through touch…this was highly unpleasant. He shivered despite his veneer of outward acceptance, and felt McCoy's grip tighten in balance to the shudder.

So he really didn't mind the fact that it wasn't very macho and captain-ish to let his Chief Medical Officer hug him. The cause was sufficient.

Oh for heaven's sake, now even his innermost thoughts sounded like Spock. Weirdness.

Bones was pulling away, arms still loose on his shoulders and fingers brushing against the back of his neck. He appreciated the grounding sensation – knowing exactly where the guy was without having to see him. "You doin' okay for now, Jim? I can scan you but if it's Q's doing I don't think I'm gonna find any way of reversing it until he gets his omnipotent carcass around to fixing it." The physician's voice was calm but Jim could fairly hear the worry wrinkles forming around kind hazel eyes.

"I don't exactly know how I'm going to deal, but I'm not in any pain or anything," he replied honestly. "Just a little weirded out." Okay, a lot weirded out, but after being changed into a tubby yellow cat by that freaky alien race on Planet T-113 last year, just losing his eyesight wasn't all _that_horrific in comparison.

He felt the sharp huff of breath on his face as Bones sighed angrily. "I don't suppose you know if this Q is as vulnerable as a human when he's in human form, do you?"

He choked on a half-hysterical laugh. "No mad scientist research on this ship, Bones," he chuckled. "Doesn't matter if he is vulnerable, you researching torture methods is gonna freak everyone the heck out."

"Which situation is not uncommon, at least in my experience," an amused voice, familiar and yet not, spoke up from his left, toward the doors.

"You Vulcans lose all sense of privacy when you get old, is that it?"

"Bones," he reproved sharply, though he could tell by listening that the man was smiling; and so was Ambassador Spock, by the sound of it. It was really bizarre, how well the two of them got along…almost creepy, actually. He knew it had something to do with the special bond between the elderly Vulcan and his own McCoy – his older self had laughingly called it 'best frenemies' and he could picture exactly what that meant – and he was glad that Bones wasn't altogether squicked by it. Actually, quite the opposite; if he didn't know better, he'd say his grumpy CMO had an itty bitty Georgia-sized man-crush on the grandfatherly Vulcan. It was kind of cute, which in turn was more than kind of creepy.

"I am unoffended, Captain," the gentle voice washed over him, soothing and calming as it always was. He unconsciously relaxed, and felt Bones's grip on him slowly lessen as the physician saw. "Although I fail to see how I am responsible for the automatic doors opening upon my arrival."

Bones muttered something under his breath, and Jim grinned in the direction he assumed the elderly Vulcan to be. "Come to make sure I'm not gonna freak out on everyone, Spock?"

"Actually, I was on my way to request the company of Dr. McCoy for midday meal, when your First Officer comm-ed the ambassadorial quarters with news of this recent development."

Good old Spock; it saved him having to explain everything to Spock and his Old Self (more awkward) and a caboodle of Vulcan ambassadors. He absently wondered if his older self felt weird traveling with an all-Vulcan delegation, and then realized that he'd be having the time of his life driving them all up the walls. Logically, of course.

Wait, _WHAT?_

"You were on your way to what?" he repeated, eyebrows up.

"Lunch, Jim," Bones said dryly, cuffing him on the back of the head. "Since Mr. I-don't-need-your-medical-advice has been avoiding me like the plague for three days because I called you on that load of –"

"I wasn't avoiding you, I was avoiding your _hypos_ and the _ranting _and Nurse Chapel chewing me out for making you grumpier than usual, and –"

"_Anyway_," the doctor spoke louder, interrupting him, "apparently your older self has more respect for my medical opinion than you. We were gonna have lunch."

He wondered with a twist of unease if this was what his Spock felt like every time he palled around with the older ambassador. Not really jealousy, per se, just…okay, so it was jealousy, but more like sad jealousy than angry jealousy?

"Oh." He hoped his voice didn't sound as falsely cheerful as he thought it did.

"Yeah, oh." Evidently it did, because he felt the gentle squeeze of Bones's hand before the physician moved away. "Stay there while I get the cranial scanner, Jim."

Ears pricked, he heard the rustle of fabric nearby and knew it was Old Spock; ambassadorial robes rather than Starfleet uniform. And since he knew the Vulcan (both of them) could move like a cat when he wanted, Spock was on purpose making a little noise so Jim wouldn't be startled. Love the guy.

He turned his head. "You and the ambassadorial party okay?" he asked, trying to ground himself on normality. "Anything you need?"

"Your crew has been exemplary in seeing to our needs, Pi'Jim," the Vulcan said, his voice bringing tranquility faster than a sedative would have. He smiled at the endearment, because it was just cute and it made him feel warm and wiggly-happy every time he heard it. "A more important inquiry would be, are you unharmed, besides the obvious?"

"Yeah, just blind as a bat," he replied, sighing. It was weird, being in complete blackness with not even a prickle or pain behind his blank eyes. "I'm worried about Q and what he meant though."

"As am I," was the quiet reply. "You will recall the damage he did during his last encounter."

"Yeah, but it was one heck of a reunion afterwards, wasn't it?" he shot back with an unrepentant grin.

"Indeed." The smile was invisible no doubt on the aging features, but Jim could hear it clearly. "I cannot say I regret his first appearance and its consequences, though I regret that you and Spock were harmed during them."

"Neither can I, but this one doesn't sound anywhere near as straightforward," he said uneasily. "I don't even know how he's going to test me, or how I can pass them – there's no rules set and no objectives."

"He is toying with you, that much is certain; otherwise the initial gambit would not be so personal."

"Yeah."

"Okay, lie back on the bed, Jim," Bones's voice sounded, increasingly close to his ear. He heard the creak of medical equipment as he followed instructions. "Will take a few minutes for a detailed brain scan. That'll show me at least if he damaged anything or if it's somethin' only Q can fix."

"Do you wish me to return at a later time, Doctor?"

"You can stay if you want, but if you're wantin' a dinner date I'm gonna need to be here with Jim," was the reply, absent with concentration. Jim felt a sudden bloom of warmth deep inside at the words, and smiled despite himself. It was good to be back on terms with Bones again, even if it had taken this to make them both put aside their stubbornness.

Judging from the tone of the ambassador's response, Spock knew exactly what he was thinking. "Of course. Another day, then?"

"Yeah, sure. I said hold still, Jim, unless you want this to take an hour! Don't make me sedate you, you idiot!"

"And on that affectionate note I shall withdraw," Old Spock said dryly, and Jim grinned in his general direction.

"Catch you later, old man," he called mischievously.

"I believe the expression is, _Children these days_," was the tolerant response.

Jim laughed; it was an old exchange, one that had only gotten worse as the years passed. "Oh, and tell Kirk I need him to stay out of Engineering while Scotty's running tests on the warp core – he's driving my people nuts," he called.

"Why am I unsurprised," the ambassador sighed. "I shall see to it, Captain. Have I your permission to also prevent him from beaming down with the exploration party for this uncharted planet around which we are currently synching an orbit? Need I point out the, as you call it, _recipe for trouble_, that that is?"

"Er…I'm not his keeper, Ambassador – isn't that your job?"

He heard a huff which doubled for a Vulcan laugh. "I have not the hours in a day for two full-time occupations, Jim."

"Heh. Go on, get him out of Scotty's hair before he clocks the old guy with a hypospanner."

"As you wish, sir," was the reply, and oh didn't Jim wish he could see the quirky tilt of the head and the eyebrows that accompanied it. A moment later the doors whooshed shut behind the ambassador.

"Watchin' the two of you is, without a doubt, the single weirdest thing I've ever seen in my life," Bones was muttering close to his ear, while tapping busily on the scanner. "If that's what you and the hobgoblin are gonna be like in forty years – "

"More like sixty," he said helpfully. "Or, in Spock's case, almost a hundred."

"Never mind! Your head looks perfectly normal, kid. Q did a number on your vision without touching the optic nerve or any portion of your brain. I dunno how, but that's the long and short of it."

"In other words I'm not going to be seeing anything until he wants me to."

"Yeah, 'fraid so. I'm sorry, Captain."

He shrugged and worked his way to a sitting position. "Right then. Doctor," and they both could tell the switch into official mode instead of friend, "I require options."


	4. Opening Gambit: Development

**_Development: the number of pieces in active play_**

Spock was…unsettled.

His nerves had been slightly set at edge to begin with ever since they had picked up the ambassadorial party from New Vulcan almost two weeks ago. While they maintained healthy relationships with their older counterparts from another universe, there still remained that instinctual revulsion – a purely mental and elemental reaction – when in contact with something which Time and Universe Laws dictate is wrong. No, there was no universe-implosion imminent from his having contact with his older self, as Jim had originally been led to believe years before, but neither was his preference to do so. Frankly, seeing only one possibility of what he might become was not encouraging, rather the opposite – and his older self's firm 'guidance' regarding certain areas of his life left him with the impression that his free will of choice was mere illusion.

Spock had learned the hard way to believe in Destiny, but did not believe that Destiny controlled his every waking moment and daily action.

And then there was the fact that his older self was quite the strangest, most enigmatic Vulcan he had ever encountered. While the older man was intelligent enough to not reveal to him any information which would damage their timelines, Spock was aware that his older self had at some point attempted – and failed – the process of becoming an acolyte of Gol. Such an attempt was laudable, and Spock had considered it himself in the immediate wake of Vulcan's destruction. He had, wisely, sought advice on the matter, for if he were to attempt it for the sake of his sanity he was not willing to entirely relinquish his human ancestry, as it was the only remaining way to ensure his mother's survival in some form.

His older self had strongly urged him to forget the idea, citing his own experience as reference; that he was too intertwined already with human lives and human emotions to ever be able to complete the process anyway; and even if that were not the case, Kolinahr meant rejection of all but pure logic, and it was an irreversible process. Spock had, therefore, been forced to endure the agony of Vulcan's destruction as a human would, only to a worse extent. He had a human's capacity to love and grieve, and no Vulcan way of dealing with that grief; a human's pain at loss, and a Vulcan's pain at devastation. The physical pain and emotional agony of loss, but also the mental torture of telepathic backlash. His dual nature had been his worst enemy, and it had nearly defeated him before he had even begun to fight.

But out of that had been born his dearest friends. Nyota had been invaluable during those first few weeks, and even more so once they had accepted an _Enterprise_posting and had agreed that they would function together better as friends-with-occasional-benefits rather than lovers. Had it not been for her unfailing support and knowledge of Vulcan custom, he might well have lost his mind in the wake of its losing a mental connection to over six billion telepathic beings.

And then there had been the ridiculous, illogical, chaotic whirlwind of James Tiberius Kirk who had – surprisingly – been his anchor throughout the worst time of his life. Kirk was a loose cannon, a dangerous variable, and while he knew the reasoning behind giving the man the Federation's flagship he was understandably wary. Pike had been an exemplary captain, and Spock had deeply respected him. Kirk was…volatile. He had no idea what to expect when he agreed to sign on as First, and even for the first few weeks of the mission began to regret his actions. While Kirk was a capable captain, he was young, arrogant, cocky...and at the same time, paranoid that he was going to make one wrong move and that Spock was going to fire off a message to Command about relieving him of his post.

But within weeks, he found himself drawn to the extraordinary human, like a magnet to iron, allured by the complete acceptance and defense the human extended toward him – not as an endangered race, though he was protective of Vulcans in general – but as what he believed humans referred to as a friend, a state of being which Spock had, until now, done nothing to earn.

"That's the point, Spock," Nyota had said one evening over dinner, when he commented as much, and she offered him a beautiful, sad smile. "You don't earn gifts; you accept them."

He had taken the risk, and had accepted the offer – and had never regretted it. Jim Kirk's mind was intense, controlled chaos, beautiful discordance, brilliant illogic – a study in paradox, and one that became his anchor through the telepathic backlash which continued to plague all Vulcans as they reeled from devastation and near-genocide. His older self had been correct in telling him that he would need Jim Kirk.

Jim was an exceptional human, and a stellar captain; but Spock knew well that he would never advance in Starfleet while he remained under Kirk's captaincy. Christopher Pike had, after five long years of therapy and operations, become able to resume active starship duty and was currently overseeing the brand-new _Excelsior_; not a battleship, but a scientific and exploratory vessel. It was an environment in which Spock would thrive, dedicated wholly to science and exploration.

Pike was still physically unable to perform the active duties of a starship captain, but was already installed as the _Excelsior'_s temporary captain while the ship was filling out a crew and going on a few shakedown missions.

He had recommended Spock for promotion to Captain on the _Excelsior_; Spock had received the notification nearly six months ago in his comms from Terra. Logistically, it was certainly a move up the ranks for his career; logically, he would flourish better in an environment dedicated wholly to peaceful scientific research; personally, he would find the service more pertinent to his people, still endangered as they were and he unable to aid in restoring their race.

Logically, there was no reason for him to not accept the promotion, and yet.

And yet.

He had not yet asked the elderly ambassador's advice regarding taking his own captaincy, as he knew instinctively what the older Vulcan's response would be. This was one path Spock knew he must choose himself, without another's perception of Destiny; this was a decision which must be solely his, uninfluenced by well-meaning future, but not identical, versions of himself and his captain.

But regarding the current mission and the elderly ambassador himself, even that invaluable information which the older Vulcan was able to give upon occasion did not negate the strange sensation that remaining in close contact with a future version of himself was just fundamentally wrong. In consequence, he had been keyed slightly tense for this mission, with his elder self, the older Kirk, and the rest of the ambassadorial party from New Vulcan aboard and on the same deck as the officers' quarters.

Jim was oblivious to any such sense of wrongness, but to Spock's relief he seemed to realize that their lives lay in different directions and did not monopolize the older Vulcan's time as he had in times past with similar situations. He was aware by this point that he need not feel threatened by his older self's presence and relationship with Jim, and he was oddly pleased that the captain did not feel it necessary to hover over his old friend in favor of spending the usual time with his crew (if the majority of said time was spent with Spock, that was sheer coincidence).

Then came the disastrous diversion to the colony on Planet M-81 and the eruption – there was no other word to describe it – over safety regulations. Kirk's recklessness had been increasing in regards to his own safety of late, even the crew themselves had noticed, and Spock was considerably not thrilled with the fact that his predictions had proven correct and Kirk nearly was killed on the planet's surface. While he was Vulcan, and Vulcans do not hold grudges, nor was he about to extend an olive branch to someone who clearly would not accept it.

Stalemate. For three days, until the advent of Q aboard the ship, which brought them all to the present points of interest.

Jim was blind. Just the idea made him shudder internally, for it was by far the worst sense to be deprived of other than telepathy. He sat on the Bridge in a borrowed chair, ill-at-ease in the center rather than his own Science station, but his unease did not show toward the crew he directed through the process of synching an orbit around a planet that, by all accounts, should not be there. It was possible – though he doubted – that it had simply been part of the charts which had been destroyed, and yet there was a lingering sense of unease which he could not fully attribute to Q's rapid appearance and disappearance.

"Orbit established, sir," Sulu reported, breaking his concentration.

"Maintain geo-synchronous orbit with the daylit side of the planet until further notice. Call the senior staff to the Captain's Ready Room in ten minutes, Mr. Chekov, for a Priority One briefing. Mr. DeSalle, you will have the conn during that time."

The lieutenant looked mildly shocked, never having been given the privilege before. Spock sighed; these minor young officers needed more opportunity for training than they were given at present simply due to the fact that they were rarely needed. He made a note to that effect in the captain's log for future reference, and left the Bridge, followed by a puzzled, and slightly worried, command crew.

"We were visited this morning by the entity known as Q," he opened the briefing directly, ten minutes later, and received various groans of acknowledgment and remembrance.

"Not again!"

"Unfortunately, again," he replied, pleased to see that none of the command chain were reacting with undue fear or anger, more exasperation. "Apparently we are about to be subjected to another of his 'tests'."

"Of what sort?" Uhura asked, tapping a stylus on the note-padd before her. Her efficient fingers were still diverting internal communications, mostly those monitoring Sickbay and Engineering status.

"That, unfortunately, he refused to tell the captain, stating that part of the test would be determining its existence and its rules and objectives."

"In other words, ye're sayin' we have to run a rat-maze for him stone blind?" Montgomery Scott asked, incredulous.

Spock winced internally at the choice of wording. "It appears that, for now, we can have no other strategy, not knowing more than we do about the matter. We can only draw upon our own resourcefulness and knowledge of how this Omnipotent works, in order to best help the captain see past whatever tests he will endure."

"Speaking of, and I'm not trying to be rude, sir, but why're you here and not Captain Kirk?" Sulu asked pointedly. "Did Q do something to him?"

The doors opened behind them. "You'll make a good captain yet, if you keep deducing like that, Mr. Sulu." Five pairs of eyes turned toward the door, where the two remaining senior staff were slowly entering. Kirk paused in the doorway, blue eyes blinking slowly and rhythmically at the room, while McCoy peered warningly over his shoulder.

Uhura's sharp perception saw it first; body language was a language just like any other, with nuances and details to be interpreted.

"What did he do, Captain?" she asked quietly, the question falling like a ton of brick in the sudden silence. "A handicap?" Kirk nodded, still unmoving, though his glance flicked over in her general direction…about two feet over her head rather than her eyes or even her body. She frowned. "Blindness?" she asked, hoping it wasn't true.

"On the money, Lieutenant," the captain sighed, reaching out slowly for the nearest chair. Chekov happened to be sitting in it, but hastily scrambled out of it and shoved it quickly under Kirk's hand. "Thanks," was the dry reply, delivered with a knowing grin. "Whoever you are, for not making me fumble around the table."

"It is not problem, sir," the young Russian said, still shocked at the harshness of Q's handicap.

"Besides, the hobgoblin's sittin' in your chair anyhow," Bones threw over his shoulder as he flopped into the empty seat between Scott and Sulu.

"Aw, c'mon, Spock – last time you did that you ratcheted the lumbar support up so far it was like trying to melt into a log cabin!"

Nervous laughter broke out among his ranks, and Jim grinned, for that had been his intention. Only Chekov noticed Spock's hand move furtively down to the side of the chair to re-adjust it to the less stiff position. He smirked as their eyes met, and the Vulcan's ears turned emerald.

Bones snorted. "Just because you're used to sittin' in that marshmallow up on the Bridge doesn't mean the rest of your staff isn't smart enough to use ergonomically correct seating, Captain."

"Gentlemen, this is both beside the point and pointless," Spock interjected, half seriously and half in an effort to save face. "Captain, I have explained the pertinent details of Q's encounter with us this morning."

"Then you know the drill, people. Best not to alarm the crew just yet, but I want all of you to be my eyes and ears – no pun intended," Jim added ruefully, as a small groan sounded from his right, "on board, see if you discover anything out of the ordinary at all. Remember last time, there were only tiny clues to let us in on what Q's tests were. This time we may have nothing to go on."

"Sir, how are you going to deal with Q's blinding you? And what was the point of that?" Uhura asked.

"Lieutenant," Spock interjected warningly.

Jim raised a remonstrative hand. "No, it's a valid question, Spock; I expect this crew to follow me but not blindly. Augh, again no pun intended." Someone snickered, obviously out of nerves. "Lieutenant, I honestly can't answer that with any accuracy," he continued, turning his head in the direction Uhura's voice had come. "So I'm actually going to be relying on you and Spock especially until I figure out how to convince Q to reverse this."

"Aye, sir." Years had honed the respect he'd had to practically kill himself to earn from his fiery communications chief, and now he trusted her with his life – and more importantly, with the lives of his crew. Uhura and Spock were equally intimidating in their respective brilliance. They were fire and ice, darkness and light, and in combination could destroy whole worlds without blinking. When Jim could play them off each other during missions, or when they combined their respective genius for recreational purposes, they were a force to be reckoned with and terrified of. They were his first and best asset in diplomatic relations, and his two right arms aboard ship. (Bones was in a class of his own, both in scariness and value to him.)

Jim was actually thankful Spock and Uhura had called off their romantic relationship halfway through the first five-year mission in favor of something with fewer restrictions; if they'd had kids they would have ruled the _galaxy_.

"Spock's going to be my eyes, and you my ears, Lieutenant," he continued, after that little mental detour. "Anything you hear, or think of, that could be related – I want it. We have to prepare ourselves this time in any way possible. I'm sorry that I can't give you any more specific orders than that."

"Understood, Captain. We'll figure something out, sir."

"I never doubted it, Uhura. Spock?"

"I will confer with the Lieutenant regarding what you would call, a game plan. At the first sign of abnormal crew behavior, you will know, Captain."

"Big Brother sees everyzhing," Chekov muttered from across the table.

Jim swallowed a laugh, quite able to picture the eyebrows and gestures the young navigator was receiving from the two terrifying members of his command crew (outside of Bones, who had a whole level of pants-wetting scariness all to himself). "Now," he managed, smiling despite the situation, "for all intents and purposes Mr. Spock will be assuming command of the ship until further notice. Technically I'm only on medical leave; that's for your safety and the ship's. If Q is going to do something to us, I need to still have verbal overrides and I can't do that if the log shows Spock's in temporary command. But for the basics, communicate your needs to him and his staff."

There was a chorus of affirmatives.

"So, Chief Science Officer, what's with this weird little planet below us?" he asked, cocking his head in Spock's general direction.

"The planet is uncharted, most likely due to incomplete star-charts, as we surmised. A stellar cartography team is updating said charts as we speak. Scanning teams are standing by with shuttles Copernicus and Ptolemy, for aerial reconnaissance and topographical detail scanning."

"No landing parties until you've verified there's nothing harmful down there," he warned. "This isn't a sanctioned drop-off for us. No time for shore leave; just get down there, get the job done for Command's reports, and get out."

"Aye, sir."

"Any other points of business?"

"Aye, cap'n," Scott spoke up from the other side of the table. "Will we be in orbit longer than twenty-four hours?"

"Spock?"

"Most likely, but not much longer," was the reply. "Around thirty to thirty-four hours, to complete and record scans."

"Then I'd like t'take the warp engines offline for a few hours," the engineer said. "'Tis been a while since she was tinkered with, and I've a new –"

"Don't," Jim said shortly, holding up a hand and trying to hide his grin. "Remember, plausible deniability. Don't do anything to endanger your people, and I won't ask questions about where you got the modifications. All I care about is can you get us the heck out of hostile situations before we go up in a ball of plasma, nothing more."

"Aye, sir." Obviously the engineer was grinning broadly. "Oh, an' one more thing, sir," he continued, plaintive.

"Yessss?" Jim drew the word out, wary of any request which employed that much pleading.

"Kin ye possibly get that crazy uncle or whatever of yours out of m'engine rooms? He's drivin' the lads up the wall, he is, all questions and tinkering and little else!"

Jim coughed to cover his surprise at the wording, before he remembered that while Spock and Bones knew about his old self and the older version of Kirk, that knowledge had been kept hidden from the majority of the crew and the rest of the world for obvious reasons. Uhura had worked it out soon after their last encounter with Q, and while he suspected that Sulu and Chekov knew too he hadn't come out and told anyone else about the weirdness which was their time-traveling versions of themselves. Kirk rarely traveled elsewhere other than the Vulcan colony, and so had not changed his name as Spock had; if and when necessary, he passed himself off as a distant relative to Jim.

"Ah…right, of course, Scotty. Add him to the landing party roster, Spock, will you?"

"_Sir_?" And yeah, that was Spock's WTF tone, he could tell that without use of his eyes.

"Oh c'mon, Spock, he won't hurt anything, and it's not like you can take a blind man on an exploration so you'll have the space I would have taken. Just give him a tricorder and sic one of your pet scientists on him, no harm done." He smiled in his most innocent manner, not needing eyesight to feel the I-hate-you vibes coming off his First Officer.

"Sir, standard procedure regarding landing party duty –"

"I am not having this argument again with you for the second time in as many weeks, Spock," he murmured under his breath in sing-song while casually rubbing the back of his neck, knowing Vulcan hearing would pick up the words before human ears deciphered the low sounds. "I _need_ you to just _do_this."

Silence, and then a quiet "Acknowledged."

Wow.

He blinked, a reflex born of habit; he'd forgotten how amazing it felt to have just one person do something for him just because they cared enough to take his word for it.

"Thank you," he said quietly, and knew the message had been received.

Bones cleared his throat awkwardly in the somewhat strained silence. "If you two've quite finished with the domestics?" he drawled.

A ripple of muffled amusement went through the room, and Jim felt his ears burn slightly. "Yes, well. Next point of business?"

"Captain…what are we going to do?" Sulu finally asked, biting his lip. "This guy's just blinded you, for heaven's sake – and he's still out there running loose on our galaxy? He could come back any time, and with you halfway out of the picture we don't stand very good odds of getting away from him intact."

Jim heard a murmured chorus of agreements in varying stages of unease, and he lifted a hand for silence, wishing desperately he could make proper eye contact with his amazing crew. "Hey, hey, relax, everybody," he spoke, letting the soothing ease of his tone (he was quite good by now at appearing perfectly calm while in reality he was hysterical on the inside) wash over the group seated around the conference table. "He's already tried this once, remember? And we did just fine."

"But this is totally different," Uhura responded, stylus tapping nervously on her datapadd. "For one thing, we aren't the same people we were five years ago. For another, he wasn't on an apparent personal vendetta against you, sir."

"And he probably isn't this time either; I don't think it's a vendetta so much as handicapping the court of last appeal, so to speak," he reassured. "And anyway, with a crew like this, how could we possibly lose? You and your communications teams took back the whole ship from that bunch of Huraon pirates last year, Lieutenant; and I have a Science Officer and Navigator who can do the mathematical computations for stabilizing a temporal shift in their heads. Sulu can fly us through an asteroid belt with his eyes closed, Scotty can beam anything except a beagle through the roughest transport beams ever produced, and Bones can scare off a whole army of Klingons just by glaring at them."

"Thanks," was the grumped reply from across the table, and everyone (except Spock) laughed.

"So we've got this, Lieutenant – all of you – you hear me? Don't sweat it. We've taken on worse enemies than Q during the last six years, and one more isn't going to stop us."

"If ye say so, laddie," Scott murmured at his elbow.

Jim plastered a confidence he only half felt onto his command persona, and flicked his unseeing eyes around the table to complete the illusion. "So just do what you do best, all of you – and everything will be fine. We're not going to let this divert us from our mission or our purpose, which is to discover and interact with new life in the galaxy. Risk is part of the job, and if that risk happens to be localized like it is right now, then we accept it and move on. Agreed?"

He heard a chorus of affirmatives, voiced in more convinced tones than he had heard so far. Excellent. He was getting better and better about this whole don't-let-your-crew-see-you're-in-reality-falling-to-pieces.

"Good. Anything else, people?"

"No, sir."

"Negative."

"Okay, then let's get to work. Commander, if there's nothing of note on the planet below I would like to be ready to be underway in twenty-four hours, thirty-six at the latest."

"Acknowledged. Mr. Chekov, if you will summon these teams to the main shuttle bay for the first fly-over."

"Aye, sir."

"Scotty, my communications team is on light rotation right now, so if you need extra hands for the work in Engineering I have people to spare."

"Thanks, lassie, I might just take you up on that. Meanwhile, I do believe we kin improve the relays in the communications circuitry if you an' Lieutenant Riley can re-route power through the secondary auxiliary couplings below the motherboard fixture…"

"Dismissed," Jim said, more as a pathetic afterthought than anything else as they began to file out; his people knew their jobs and did them well – perfectly well – without his input. It made him feel a little redundant, times like this; his crew was so brilliant without him that he was little more than a dunsel.

A blind one, yes.

He started when a hand came down on his shoulder.

"How you feeling, Jim?"

He smiled thinly. "Honestly? A little…unneeded." He stood, regaining his balance after a moment's hesitation. The device in his hands, a modified sensor net, had been hidden during the meeting, and now beeped rapidly to let him know he was within inches of the table. He turned, until the beeping ceased and he was aimed at the doors. "Can you make sure this thing doesn't malfunction and let me run into a wall on the way to the turbolift?"

"Yeah," was the soft reply, and he felt the brush of medical scrubs as the man kept close to his side, making sure no one jostled him as he slowly made his way toward the end of the corridor.

"You should go back to your cabin, lie down…maybe do some reports, you can convert text-to-speech on your editing module," Bones suggested.

He snorted. "Sending the sick kid to his room for a nap, are we?" The physician was silent, and Jim sighed. "Sorry, that was uncalled-for."

"I dunno exactly how to help you, Jim. And letting this whole Spock movin' on to his own captaincy thing eat at you isn't gonna help your stress levels right now, either."

"Yeah, I know. Thanks," he said, elbowing the older man comfortably. The sensor net chirped, letting him know he was within feet of the lift. "Okay, I can make it from here."

"If you say so," was the dubious reply, but Bones knew better than to hover over him and he was thankful for that. The doors of the lift closed, and he ran a shaking hand over his face.

"Deck Five."


	5. Opening Gambit:  CounterPlay

**_Counter Play: when the player who has been on the defensive begins aggressive action_**

Jim wasn't a paranoiac, so to speak, but he did have instincts that had saved his life (and his crew's) more times than he could count. Plus, he'd had Bones as a roommate at Starfleet Academy and as such he was ready for any type of insanity that might leap at him out of the dark when he entered a room. So, even blind, he could tell immediately when he entered his cabin that someone was in there.

"How, exactly, did you get in here?" he asked, not caring about the cross petulance in his tone. He'd had an epically Not Good Day, all right?

"Voice recognition interface," was the amused, almost tolerant, answer, from somewhere near his desk. "Can't lock yourself out of your own room, now can you?"

"Save it," he muttered. If he'd been able to see where the old man was he would have flipped him off, but it wasn't worth the energy to risk looking like a blind idiot. "Should have password-protected everything…"

"That wouldn't really change anything, would it? We'd choose the same one."

"We wouldn't, because _you are not me_!" he snapped, nerve breaking in the face of a confrontation which had been building for weeks. His sensor net beeped angrily, telling him he'd gotten turned around and was facing a wall instead of his working area like he'd thought.

Silence.

"Well, now that you've gotten that out of your system…" The older man's voice sounded tentative, but ever-so-slightly apologetic and…amused.

Jim chuckled despite himself – lol, pun – and the tension fled. There wasn't any real reason for him to be acting like this except that frankly it creeped him out, seeing what he – please no, God – was going to be like in several decades. (He'd given up late-night snacking with an alacrity that had thoroughly shocked his CMO.) "You know I still haven't decided if I even _like _you or not," he informed the unseen occupant, turning slowly until his sensor indicated he was aimed in the general direction of the small, low-slung sofa in his living quarters.

"That'd be a bit narcissistic, anyway."

"True." He flipped a mock salute in the direction of his desk as he sank into the sofa's cushions. "Any particular reason why you're here and not chilling with your Vulcan groupies?" Obviously Spock was putting off inviting the man on the landing party until the very last second.

Amusement sounded clearly in the older man's voice. "My 'Vulcan groupies' are discussing something extremely complicated and logical and ambassadorial and just plain boring," Kirk said dolefully. "You know that feeling when your eyes start to glaze over and you just nod in what you hope are the appropriate places?"

Jim laughed. "Totally, yeah. Sometimes I think Spock and Chekov need to be chipped with a quantum and relativistic physics translation matrix."

"Besides," Kirk went on, the smile evident, "Spock – my Spock – told me what happened to you."

"I don't need your sympathy."

"Good, because I'm not offering it to you," Kirk retorted. "However, if you're anything like I am, you'll die before accepting help from someone else right now."

"Glad to see we understand each other," Jim replied, words clipped.

He heard a tolerant sigh. "My point was, I'm not just someone else, now am I?"

"Don't start that crap. You're nothing like me."

"Are you trying to convince me, or yourself?"

Jim's response was not on the diplomatic side, but in his defense it had been one of the most god-awful days of his life. His older self only laughed.

"Do you really feel that threatened by me?"

"Please," Jim scoffed, glaring in the direction of the voice. "You're old enough to be my father."

"And…is that _why_?" Kirk asked quietly.

He froze, hands stilling around his modified sensor net. "You know, I think I've made up my mind," he finally said through a clenched jaw. "I _do _hate you."

A slightly-amused huff, followed by a sigh. "I shouldn't be surprised; I don't particularly love you either," the older man retorted. "You're far more reckless and juvenile than I ever was."

"Yeah, your Spock's told me you were a major Academy nerd," he shot back. "I crammed a four-year into three, majored in Command and minored in Technical Programming, and still graduated with honors just like you. Only _I _got a ship straight out of graduation." Okay, so he got the ship more because three-quarters of their Fleet had been annihilated and there weren't many command-capable officers available, but that was beside the point.

"And acquired a criminal record before you ever thought about doing any of it."

"I suppose you were the model child, farming corn and saving money and studying hard to make mommy and daddy proud."

"I wouldn't go that far," Kirk said, obviously shrugging. "Never had much luck with the corn at least, since we didn't even have a garden."

"Ever drive a car off a cliff?"

"No, actually I can't drive anything with wheels, at least not safely. Ask Spock."

He blinked. "You can't?"

"Should have seen his face the one time I tried. Carsick before we'd gone three blocks. You think he looks greenish normally! 'Are you afraid of cars, Mr. Spock?' 'Not at all, Captain; It is your driving that alarms me.'" (1)

Jim hooted, leaning back on the couch, arms propped aimlessly behind his head.

"Now, hovercars on the other hand…" Kirk continued, grin evident.

He tilted his head, eyebrow raised. "They _had _hovercars when you were my age?"

The scowl nearly took his head off, even in the dark. "Look, kid, you yanked me into this parallel universe, so you don't really get off reminding me how behind the timeline I am."

"Technically, Spock – my Spock – and Q yanked you into it," he pointed out helpfully (2). "And you are, so I kind of do."

"You're such a child," the older man sighed. Jim heard the creak of a chair as Kirk rose. "Look, I just came to chat but if you're going to play the hero and be above such common things, I'll go find Spock and a chess set. See you around."

Lips tight, he momentarily contemplated apologizing, but decided it wasn't worth the expenditure of effort. He didn't hate the guy, they just didn't really get along.

"Rec Room Four has the most up-to-date games," he offered by way of compromise. "Not much of a chessmaster myself but I like watching Spock and Uhura play every now and then."

A gentle draft told him the older man was leaving. "Thanks," came the call from across the room. "And if you need to talk to someone…I'm sure you of all people always know where to find me."

The pneumatic hiss of the doors indicated he was alone, then. Exhausted and tense, he thought about trying to find his bed with the aid of the sensor net…to heck with it. He'd gotten four hours' sleep last night, and Q had wreaked enough havoc that it felt like ten times that.

He tossed the net onto the floor, kicked off his boots, and was asleep within minutes, trying to ignore the fact that the room was equally dark whether or not his eyes were closed.

* * *

><p>Waking up abruptly with the knowledge that you've fallen asleep with your neck twisted in a painful position was bad enough; being startled into that wakefulness and realizing you can't see a thing is ten times worse. The ambassador was lucky to have quick reflexes for an old Vulcan, else he'd have been the recipient of a flailing fist to the jaw.<p>

As it was, Jim was glad his undignified yelp hadn't been heard by his Spock, as he embarrassed himself enough in front of his First as it was. Plus he was pretty sure he'd been drooling on his sofa cushions, which he always did when sleeping on his side. But anyway, he was sure that by this point Old Spock had seen it all, and he got the idea that the elderly Vulcan viewed him similarly as he apparently did Bones – as a cute little baby version of his own Jim, and spoiled him accordingly.

"Do I want to know how you got into my quarters without knocking, too?" he grunted, hauling himself upright.

The old man's voice betrayed far too much amusement for a proper Vulcan. "Bio-signature recognition software?"

"Ah, right. This could get real old real fast, you know." He sighed. His door was programmed to open for Spock, because he got sick of the unfailingly polite chiming at all hours when the Vulcan had still been stiff-and-proper and would wait for ten minutes in the corridor if need be, not heeding the weird looks he got from passers-by. Spock still refused to just pop through their adjoining bathroom unless it was late at night (rumors flew aboard a starship), and so Jim had finally given up and programmed the door to open to Spock's bio-signature or unlock at voice recognition.

"I would not have disturbed you, young one, but for the fact that you are due for a debriefing with my younger self in fifteen minutes, and you have not been heard from since you left the Ready Room two hours ago," came the gentle reply. "I will summon McCoy should you prefer his presence to mine?"

Manipulative old busybody. Jim grinned; he wouldn't trade it for the world. "Now don't start, Spock, making me pick favorites."

"I would not dream of it," was the prim response. "I believe we all are aware of who would win, were that the case."

He snorted, rubbing useless eyes out of habit rather than necessity. "So the shuttles have come back?" He scrubbed out a yawn before fumbling for his sensor net. It had obviously fallen somewhere around his feet while he slept, because he couldn't find it…until it landed in his lap. He bristled but bit his tongue, mumbling a thank you which the elderly Vulcan kindly ignored.

"Ten minutes ago. Spock decided to not page you from the Bridge, no doubt because he did not wish you to harm yourself in trying to locate the intra-comm and he knew you would have alarms in place should you oversleep the briefing time."

"Nice of him." Spock was awesome like that.

"Indeed."

"So how was the chess game?"

A pause. "Your skills of perception have improved since your incapacitation," the ambassador said, an inquiry obvious in the tone.

He laughed, standing up and trying to get his bearings without looking like a flailing moron. "Not really. Kirk was in here earlier."

"Ah. That explains his…overly aggressive playing style, this game."

A smirk twisted his lips. "Irritated him, did I?"

"You do seem to take delight in, as they say, _winding him up_," Spock replied dryly. "One would gather from your interactions that you suffer from split personality disorder; how else can you so completely exasperate your own self?"

"Takes one to know one," he shot back, pointedly.

"Indeed."

Jim stretched, arms as high above his head as they could reach. Something snapped satisfyingly in his upper back. "So, how does my hair look?" he asked, running his finger through the smashed portions of it.

"…Slightly flattened on the left side."

He laughed. "That's going to be the worst part of this, I think, having to rely on a Vulcan's sense of style instead of a mirror to see if I look my usual stunning self."

"Truly a galactic tragedy to young hopefuls everywhere," the ambassador replied dryly.

Jim was about to ask the elderly man to comm the Bridge when the door to his cabin opened – annnnd, right on schedule.

Footsteps halted abruptly. "My apologies, sir," came the cool voice of his First Officer, and Jim recognized the brittle, slightly irritated edge of I-do-not-like-being-caught-off-guard. "I was unaware you were…engaged."

"And you still have all the subtlety of a Terran tiger marking its territory, young one," Old Spock sighed. Jim sniggered silently at the vibes of _mine _that bounced off the occupants of the room. "Captain, I will take my leave."

"Unnecessary," Spock began, obviously somewhat abashed.

Tolerant amusement was clear in the old Vulcan's tone. "I know my place, young one, and I also know yours."

"And ne'er the twain shall meet," Jim chimed in helpfully from where he was attempting to tie his right boot blind (he felt like a little kid again counting out rabbit ears and 'round the bend). Twin glares fairly set his hair on fire, he could feel it. He employed his number one Spock defense mechanism, the innocent baby blues blinking angelically at his victim. "What?"

The elder Vulcan's voice sounded more pleased than anything else. "You are more than welcome to him, young one."

"Your unselfishness is commendable."

"Indeed."

Jim did like his Spock in surround-sound, and pouted as he heard the ambassador move toward the cabin door. "Okay, one of you want to help me find my left boot?" he finally asked, trying to not snap in his frustration. The stupid thing must have been knocked out of arms' reach sometime during the last few minutes, he was fumbling around and couldn't find it anywhere…

Until it plopped solidly into his hands. "Thanks, Spock," he muttered, ramming his left foot viciously into the leather. Behind him, the cabin door closed behind the older Vulcan's retreat. "Where's the briefing?"

"Your secondary ready room, as it is the most easily accessed from the turbolift next door. Unless you would prefer another?"

Bless him, Spock was brilliant when it came to details. Last thing he needed was to have to walk a half-kilometer of corridor looking like the blind man he was. "Nope, that's great." He wobbled back to his feet, attaching the sensor net to his belt so that he at least wouldn't run into anything. "Anything else happen that I need to know about? What have you told the crew?"

"Nothing of note, and no indications of Q's return," was the reply. "I have informed the crew only that we were visited by yet another deific being who intended to place us through a series of experiments to prove our supposed worth, and that you had been involved in the confrontational altercation. That you were in no danger of death or serious illness, but needed time to mentally and physically recuperate from a slight injury."

Jim nodded approvingly. "Good. No need to make the crew uneasy."

"Nor to place you on anything but temporary medical relief, in case your command functions prove necessary in whatever Q has planned for the ship."

"You, my friend, are brilliant. So. Aaack!" He took a hesitant step, and tripped ungainfully over the blanket which was curling up round his ankles snake-like. He barely had time to yelp and brace for impact before a Vulcan-strong hand caught his arm in one smooth gesture, hauling him back upright. "Thanks. Man, I'm tired of this already."

"Perhaps Q will tire of his game? He can hardly expect you to properly 'play' by his rules if you are handicapped in such a manner."

"Yeah, but again both he and you forget one important thing, the best thing about playing games with me."

"Which is?"

"I'm a _cheater_," he said with a feral grin. "Now, Mr. Spock, if you'd make sure I don't trip over my own feet – or anyone else's – on our way to the briefing?"

* * *

><p>The next twelve hours were spent in the mundane but necessary boringness which characterized being a starship captain. It wasn't all glory and space battles and press conferences and looking hot and performing the impossible, being Captain – there was a darn lot of paperwork, and so many small details to be seen to that it fairly drove him crazy sometimes. Thank God he had an OCD Vulcan First Officer who did a spectacular job of directing, re-directing, and mis-directing at least two-thirds of the minutae so that Jim didn't have to wrap his brain around why he had to approve a request for more towels in the ship's gymnasium, or report to Starfleet Command why the Enterprise's hull needed refinished after a skirmish with an over-eager Orion freighter last month.<p>

Discovering an uncharted planet was always exciting for everyone except those who had to do the paperwork. Jim's no-nonsense yeoman was a godsend, but even so he had been buried in a stack of padds (text translated to speech; annoying but he wasn't about to shove off the paperwork on his already overworked staff just because he couldn't read) for four hours by the time Spock's secondary survey teams returned from the planet's surface with almost complete topography scans.

Now the fun began; once he and Spock had gone through all the reports to make sure there was nothing harmful on the planet below, they would drop a couple of basic eyewitness observation teams, take a look around, hopefully not get nastily surprised by invisible natives or carnivorous plants that deceived their scans, and then be back on board to warp out to the peace conference at Delta.

He was on his fifteenth scientific report and third apple core when the door to his quarters opened.

"Computer, pause transcription."

_"Transcription paused. Waiting voice activation."_

"Spock, Captain," his First announced unnecessarily, because Jim knew no one else would come near him when he'd been dealing with paperwork for hours – not even his slightly infatuated yeoman was that brave. "Status report?"

"Arrrrghhhh, shoot me now," was Jim's eloquently mumbled response, accompanied by a clunk when his head hit the table.

_"Voice command arrrgshoomeenaoh not recognized,"_ the computer chirped cheerfully. _"Please repeat."_

"Shut _up_, computer. Why, again, do I have to sign off on these instead of you, Spock?"

"Because the planet is uncharted; it therefore is technically classified as an Uncategorized Risk by Starfleet regulation definition. Any Risk is the captain's prerogative and his responsibility to decide upon, as his crew's safety is dependent upon his decisions. Exploration of uncharted planets, however initially harmless they appear, are not required by starships on active mission duty, which we currently are."

"In other words, I should have just ignored it popping up out of nowhere and saved myself the headache. And the shipload of paperwork."

"Or you could simply have pled temporary medical relief of duty, in which case the signatures would have fallen to me."

He blinked, more out of habit than to clear his (non-existent) vision. "And you couldn't have told me that four hours ago?"

"I believe your ordering me to 'butt out, and for heaven's sake get Old You out of my hair for an hour' was a more urgent order at the time?"

See, this was why he couldn't stay irritated for long with Spock. He laughed, leaning back in his chair. Habit dictated the familiar pose, let him look upward at the height he reflexively knew Spock would be, but he had never realized until now just how much he relied on his eyesight to help him understand his Vulcan First as well as he did. People insisted Vulcans were unemotional and undemonstrative – which was both true and untrue. They were so by human standards; but, if you knew how to look and what to notice, they were just as demonstrative in their own ways as humans were in much more open ways.

Now he was fully reliant on Spock's voice, and that gave him very little clues. But it would have to be enough.

"Sit down, Commander," he said with a sigh. "And please tell me you have better news than Scotty's 'I still need twelve hours, sir, before we'll be ready ta go anywhere.'"

* * *

><p>(1) Quote from <em>A Piece of the Action<em>  
>(2) See this story's prequel, <em>Second-Best Destiny<em>


	6. Opening Gambit: Equalize

**_Equalize: To achieve a position where the opponent's initiative is negated; to overcome a disadvantage and make for equal odds of winning_**

Paperwork took them the better part of the day, and when evening fell Jim was not in the mood to brave the Officers' Mess even on an off-hour nor to attempt walking anywhere public even with Spock's help. His First Officer was his brilliant self and saw to it that the rest of the formalities which they hadn't got through were suitably delegated to the Archives department, and did the final planetary checks to ensure everyone was off the planet for the night.

The Science departments were buzzing, according to Bones who came by with dinner when Spock commed him (bless them both) and for once didn't gripe about Jim's propensity to eat his dessert first (hey, he's a starship captain, and more than once has his meal been interrupted by official business or space pirates or any number of other things; priorities, man.). Evidently the planet had some interesting topographical anomalies which defied logical principles of evolution, and they had seen no signs of any animal or even advanced plant life anywhere on the planet. Other than basic vegetation, it appeared to be a planet solely void of living organisms, which was a bit strange in itself.

Jim was bored before the physician was finished droning on about how he'd bet his year's salary that the lack of intelligent life meant that some deadly disease or catastrophe had wiped out the population at some previous point, and so he only nodded and _hmmm_-ed in the right places, and tried his best to get more German chocolate cake into his mouth than on his uniform tunic. Part of him was entirely humiliated that Bones had to point out his spillage to him, but the rest was glad the man only handed him a napkin and brought his hand to the right place instead of taking care of it for him. He'd never have thought it was so hard to eat without being able to see the utensil and his mouth, and by the time he'd missed his lips twice and gotten an empty fork to them once, he was more than happy to leave the remainder of the dessert and eat his thankfully in-one-piece-and-manually-eaten sandwich with a muttered word of gratitude for Bones's foresight.

Bones chattered for a few minutes about nothing important, just basic Sickbay business, and then abruptly cut himself off when he realized Jim's attention had wandered.

"Borin' you, am I?" he asked, obviously amused.

Jim started, blushing in embarrassment. "Sorry," he mumbled into the sandwich. "My brain's just a million different places right now."

"Figures. You're a heck of a lot calmer than most people would be who've just lost their sight, though, so don't feel too bad about it."

"You'd rather I be curled up in a ball under a snuggie, emo and angsting over how unfair my life is?"

He heard a sharp snort, the equivalent of a laugh. "Got enough of that durin' your Academy days. Try it now and you'll get a hypo full of antidepressants before you can blink. And remember you wouldn't be able to see it coming, kid. I could get you _anywhere_."

He laughed, and swallowed another bite. "Nice of you to spare Spock the feed-the-baby chore," he said, trying to punch the guy in the arm. He missed, and heard a yelp. "My bad, sorry."

A large hand swatted the back of his head fondly. "Just keep pointy objects to yourself until you can see if you're going to poke someone's eye out, that's all I ask."

"You got it. So," he changed the subject with an evil smirk, "did you reschedule your romantic little dinner date with Ambassador Spock?"

The amount of spluttering told him Bones had just inhaled his sweet tea and the sinus cavities were not appreciative. "You are a sick, sick pervert, Jim," was the audibly nauseated reply.

He grinned. "You know you love it."

"Nothin' of the kind, you dimwit. Ugh, the nightmares I'm gonna have tonight thanks to that frightening little brain of yours…"

"Speaking of which," he mused, tapping a fork on what must be the plate, as it wasn't metallic sounding enough to be the dinner tray, "still no amazing ideas about how to reverse Q's blindness spell? Think it's like Rapunzel and my One Twue Wove has to cry all over me to reverse it?"

"That's not a game, that's a worse-than-galactic-net-fansite romance novel," was the dry reply. "I dunno, Jim. I can't see how he did it, so it's not lookin' likely that I'll be able to reverse it with science. Even had the hobgoblin look over the scans, and for once he agrees with me."

"Heaven help us all."

"Brat. Watch it, your mayo is doin' an escape act out the back of that sandwich."

He hastily whipped the item in question around and took a big bite out of the back end.

"…Well, that's one way of doing it?"

Cheeks bulging, he stuck his tongue out in Bones's general direction – just as the door opened to admit his First Officer (had to be, because it would only open to Spock and he couldn't hear the soft swish of ambassadorial robes so it wasn't Old Spock).

"Hi, Spock," he said around the ham-and-replicated-swiss, though it came out in a sort of garbled _hiyerspah_.

"…Captain." The unspoken _you humans are illogically disgusting _was clear in the tone. "My apologies for disrupting your meal, sir."

"Shhokay." He chewed, and swallowed, grinning at what he could sense was catlike disgust. "What's up?"

Another brief pause, in which the Vulcan was clearly deciding whether or not to dignify the illogical question with the expected repartee. "Doctor McCoy," and obviously the guy wasn't going to play, this time, "your scientific knowledge is required in the bacteriology labs."

"Regarding what? Did Danvers stick himself again with something, because I told him if he was that careless one more time I'd boot him down to Recycling faster 'n you can say sweet home Alabama –"

"Negative," and was it Jim's imagination or did Spock sound actually amused, or at least not irritated with the world in general like he usually sounded of late? "Your final observations regarding the lack of bacterial life found on the planet below are required for the finalization of reports, which the Captain will be compiling and sending to Starfleet tomorrow. While the matter is not urgent in itself, Lieutenant Anderssen has what I believe you humans term, a 'date' tonight, and in result of being late for said date due to waiting for your signature, has become entirely useless to me due to his complete inattention to his work."

Jim stifled a laugh into his lemonade – ugh, mental note to say something to Scotty about the sugar levels. He'd had cough syrups that tasted less saccharine.

"Playin' relationship mediator to a bunch of illogical, emotional humans, are we?"

"Negative. However, 'playing' Chief Science Officer to a subordinate who is once again late with his complete paperwork? Most certainly."

"I really, really don't like you, you know that?"

"So you have stated, and shown, on laboriously repetitive occasions."

"Doesn't that bother you, just a teensy little bit?"

"Negative." If Spock's voice were any smugger, Jim knew he'd be smiling outright, scarily so. Bones already was, he could tell without seeing the guy. To an outsider, it would sound as if the two were horrendously out of line and deeply disrespectful, but Jim knew they both enjoyed being frenemies way too much to change now. Also, they were aware that he loved hearing the verbal sparring matches from a safe distance out of the crossfire, and part of this was obviously being put on for his benefit.

He loved them both for it.

"I place very little stock in anything you may say, Doctor McCoy, and therefore am no more disturbed by your outdated and slightly xenophobic remarks than I am by your other displays of Neanderthalic intelligence. Such can only be expected and tolerated from a backward species."

"I'll show you _backward_, the next time you need a physical. We'll see how well your circuitry and databanks work when I put the examination tools in a refrigeration unit before you get there!"

"Guys, entertaining as this is, poor Anderssen's girl is going to skin him if he misses another date because of his devotion to Spock's approval," Jim interjected, laughing into the remnants of his sandwich. He didn't need eyesight to tell that the two of them were looking at him, judging the effects of their attempt to lighten his mood. They were really the two things he could never do without in the world.

He just hoped Spock would see that, sometime soon, and decide not to transfer to the _Excelsior_. He'd lose half of his entire moral support group, and it wasn't a pleasant thought.

Forcing that thought to the back of his mind, he smiled in the general direction of the verbal warfare being waged. "I'm fine, Bones; Spock's perfectly capable of handling a napkin if necessary. Go bail out poor Anderssen."

He sensed Spock's eyebrows, and waved a paper napkin at the Vulcan while Bones gathered up his own dinner tray and shoved it into the recycling unit. "I'll be back later if you need me, Jim," the physician called.

"I'm fine, Bones, really. Worry about your paperwork, not me, or this slave driver here might decide to demote you."

"I'd like to see him try. You really want _Chapel _mooning over you when you have a Bio-Medical department head meeting?" McCoy shot over his shoulder as he left.

Spock was close enough that his shudder was apparent, and Jim hid a grin out of respect. Chris was an awesome nurse, and a capable officer – but her one weakness was one which pretty much half the crew, male or female, shared; a massive, planetoid-sized crush on their elusive, mysterious First Officer. She was close friends with Uhura, and Jim was well aware that Spock was the topic of many late-night nail-painting conversations, or whatever it was that girls did when they had brains to match their beauty and were so scarily brilliant that half the crew were afraid of them.

"So," he began, looking up, and then around, trying to figure out where Spock was.

He heard a near-silent rustle, and Spock's voice came from in front of him, at a good distance. "My apologies."

"What for?"

"Not informing you of my whereabouts."

He fidgeted with the paper napkin; it was little things like this that made it seem all the more real that he possibly could be without this incredible person in a very few weeks. "Thanks," he said simply, knowing Spock wouldn't care about reassurance that it wasn't necessary. "I appreciate you not creeping up on me."

"I have been reliably informed that I do that enough as it is," was the dry reply.

Jim grinned. "Anyhow, did you need me for something or were you really just going all scary parental on Anderssen's behalf?"

"…Scary parental?"

"Oh, come off it, you know all your people absolutely adore you. No other commanding officer would seek out Bones to get him to do his paperwork on time so that Anderssen's girl doesn't dump him after two missed dates."

"The last one was my oversight; I had given the lieutenant a project which could not humanly be completed in the amount of time allotted."

"And he took it and did it with without a word of complaint, because he pretty much worships the ground you walk on, Mr. Spock."

It was true, and it was one of the things Jim loved most about having this being as his First. Loyalty to a captain was far easier to obtain than loyalty to the lower chain of command – and Spock had it, from nearly everyone aboard, just because he was a wonderful person. Far more considerate a commander than most human would be, brilliant and patient in teaching less intelligent beings, and firmly consistent and calm in the face of even the worst stress.

"That's one of the things that makes you the most valuable First Officer in the 'Fleet, Spock," he continued, sincerely. "You'd make a phenomenal starship captain by yourself, just by virtue of the fact that you're able to inspire confidence and loyalty without sacrificing that calm rationality which makes you invaluable as a scientist."

Where in the world that had come from, he'd no idea, and it was very alarming – it was as if his brain had already recognized how stupid Spock would be to decline Pike's recommendation for captaincy. It would be a foolish career move to stay aboard the _Enterprise_, and his mind had already accepted that fact.

Spock's silence was indicative, of what he didn't know, but he didn't have time to ask because the intra-comm blared suddenly.

"Bridge to Captain Kirk."

Jim didn't have to ask; Spock reached over and flicked the switch for him. "Kirk here."

"Sir, is Commander Spock with you?"

"I am, Lieutenant."

"Sir," and Uhura's voice was vibrating with suppressed laughter, "we've just been alerted by Lieutenant Sulu that there's a...situation, developing in the Experimental Botany labs, which requires the attention of the Chief Science Officer according to protocol."

Oh, for pity's sake, not again.

Spock's tone indicated the same sentiments. "Dare I ask what sort of situation, Lieutenant?"

"I believe the words _indiscriminately amorous vegetation _were used, in conjunction with one of the Vulcan ambassadorial party?"

"Allow me to speculate; the human member of that party?"

"According to Ambassador Selek, yes. It's obviously not dangerous, since there's been no blue alert sounded, but I do think a command presence is needed," their comms chief managed, admirably refraining from the hysterical giggling Jim was muffling into the nearest cushion.

"Acknowledged." The small huff of breath which escaped the Vulcan's lips was the human equivalent of sighing dramatically, and Jim went off into another fit of laughter. "Spock out. Captain." He turned, and Jim instantly plastered a suitably annoyed look on his face. "Your elder self is causing more problems aboard than, in my not-uninformed opinion, he is worth."

"You can't blame him for this, if Sulu didn't warn the newbies about his little friend," Jim protested, though he felt warm and tingly all over at the knowledge that there was no doubt Spock liked him better than his older and wiser (if chubbier) self.

"I was personally present when the lieutenant did just that," Spock replied dryly.

"…Ah." Jim cleared his throat. "Well, you know what they say about curiosity and humans."

"No, I do not. I am aware of an adage regarding felines and that quality, though the applicability is hardly encouraging. What _do_'they' say, about humans and curiosity?"

"Uh…so few species, so little time?"

The silence could have curdled milk.

"Well, I didn't come up with it," he muttered, wadding up the paper napkin and throwing it in Spock's general direction.

"But you have done your part in experimental testing of it?"

"Jealous, Commander?"

"I believe your human expression is, _not by a long shot_. Sir."

He laughed, feeling more himself than he had since Q's appearance early that morning. "Whatev, Spock," he said, making a shooing motion toward the door. "Go on, then, time to roll out the rescuing the damsel in distress act again. You know what it does to the crew."

"No, I do _not_, and have no desire to be so informed," Spock replied, his voice receding as he headed toward the door.

"I'll meet you in Sickbay after you've done the dirty work," he called, "Bones said I have to have a vitamin hypo before I go to sleep and he forgot to give it to me."

He could fairly hear the wheels turning as Spock stopped just before the door. "And you are actually going to voluntarily submit to it?" The _are you ill? _was just as loud and obvious as the actual words.

"If I don't, he'll wait 'til after 2300 and then sneak in and get me while I sleep," he grumbled, stuffing what he hoped was the rest of his cake and not meatloaf (the Officers' Mess chef had wanted his opinion and had put a slice on his plate, and it was just as bad as a replicated one in his opinion, tasted like a hamburger-flavored sponge) in his mouth. Good, it was cake; safe. "The dude's like a ninja, Spock, seriously."

Spock chose the high road and ignored him.

* * *

><p>Sickbay was a sleepy place this time of ship's evening. Most emergencies happened during the mid-day or late afternoon hours, except for sudden illness, and his crew was fairly healthy. Evenings in Sickbay were more relaxed than the tense, business-like feeling which pervaded the rooms during the day, when battles were waged against Death and Pain. Ever since Dr. Puri had been killed on the day of the Battle of Vulcan those years ago, McCoy's reign over the flagship's Sickbay had been a standing source of amusement, fondness, and sheer unmitigated terror for crew members, depending on which end of his treatment they were. Jim loved it, the hollering and the panicking and the comforting, all of it, which probably spoke to how screwed up his psyche was, that he didn't mind being in Sickbay all that much. Bones was his security blanket, a 'cactus with a marshmallow center' as Chapel called the doctor behind his back, and he really didn't mind waking up in Sickbay provided his BFF wasn't taking Spock's side and not his in the battle of wills which usually resulted.<p>

Now, he sat on a Bio-bed in the outer ward, using his other senses in lieu of his sight to tell what was going on. From the Recovery ward, one of the harangued nurses was giving an engineer the business over trying to check himself out of therapy before he was ready. Bones and Spock still hadn't come back from the Botany labs, and Chapel was off-duty now, so he had a harder time recognizing voices around him. And had Sickbay always smelled that badly of disinfectant? He'd never really noticed just how bad it was until he was reliant on his other senses.

The doors opened with a hiss, and he picked out Spock's steps (no one else had that long of a stride or walked that rhythmically). Annnnnd there was Bones, harassing his newest patient into the next room, no mistaking that lovely Southern charm.

Spock's steps moved over to him. "Are you in need of Dr. McCoy's immediate services, sir?"

"Nope, just waiting around 'til he's done," he replied, smiling at the dutifully solicitous tone. "How's our plant victim?"

"I presume, receiving the full benefit of the doctor's ranting power," was the dry reply, as the voices in the other room reached decibel levels which made caninoid species everywhere cringe.

"I don't suppose it would do any good for me to tell Bones to go easy on him?"

"I doubt that is an issue, Captain. Your elder self seems to be more affronted by the fact that Ambassador Selek declined to accompany him to Sickbay. I believe the words 'traitorous abandonment' were used."

Jim snickered. "You get wiser with age, Spock."

"Indeed." Spock's smugness was obvious. "And you rather less so, though no less adventurous with regards to…befriending new species."

"Insubordination and disrespect, First Officer."

"Scientific observation. Sir."

He made a whatever-I-give-up gesture. "'Kay, you've done your rescuing duty for the evening, Spock, go and let your hair down or do advanced calculus problems or whatever it is you Vulcans do to unwind."

"And abandon you to the verbal crossfire, Captain?"

He laughed. "I'm good. If Bones isn't done in ten minutes I'll charm my way out of here. You've rescued enough Jim Kirks for one evening."

"Indeed," Spock replied wryly. "Then I bid you good night, Captain."

"Night, Spock." He waited until the door had shut behind his First and then raised his voice to his best Captain bellow. "What's a guy got to do to get a little service around here!"

* * *

><p>He wasn't overly thrilled with his older counterpart's offer to take him back to his cabin, but he wasn't going to cause a scene in the middle of Sickbay and in front of a boatload of gawking junior officers who were gathering for Nurse Anya's midweek-night poker tournament. Bones had sounded utterly exhausted, and selfish as he was Jim wasn't about to make him babysit for another hour or so when he'd already put in a fourteen-hour day.<p>

However, that magnanimity was costing him now, as he was unable to physically kick Kirk out of his cabin and it would be highly embarrassing to have to call Spock to do so (either of them) at this point.

"Don't you have a Vulcan attaché to go annoy or something?" he finally asked, cutting the older man off in the middle of some rambling anecdote about the differences in color schemes between his world and their universe. Honestly, you'd think the guy had lived in ancient Terra's Groovy Sixties, what with the multicolored monstrosities he was describing. Jim was glad his universe's tech market had been long monopolized by the characteristic sleek white and grey of what used to be Apple Technologies, before it was bought out late last century by a subsidiary of the United Federation of Planets.

Uhura would have looked _scorching _in blazing scarlet, though. And if he rocked a green wrap-around shirt on the same duty shift, the Bridge might just implode from Hotness.

He yanked his mind back to the present, silently thanking Old Spock for his memory-wisps which made for some very…interesting, dreams and daydreams, in time to interrupt with the aforementioned sentence, hoping against hope that the older man would take it for the defense mechanism it was.

He wasn't sure whether to be angry or pleased that Kirk refused to leave even in the face of his irritation.

"I'm leaving Spock to the mercy of his stuck-up negotiating party, since he abandoned me to Bones's tender mercies," Kirk retorted, and Jim smothered a grin into his pillow at the sound of the grumpy tone. "I have to say that's one thing – maybe the only one thing – I don't miss about him." Wistfulness tinged the words with nostalgic sadness. "He's very like the Bones I knew, and yet he's so vastly different."

"Different…good?" he asked curiously.

Silence for a moment, in which he suspected the old man had made a gesture which he obviously couldn't see, for a moment later Kirk apologized. "Sorry – no, not different good or bad, necessarily. Just…enough of a reminder that this isn't my world, isn't my universe."

"I'm sorry," he offered, sincerely enough; he'd seen only a tiny glimpse of the ice-sharp pain and loneliness that the older Spock had been feeling, there on Delta Vega – and that had to be multiplied tenfold after spending so long trapped in this alternate universe.

"Don't be; it's thanks to you that I'm still alive at all," was the quiet reply.

"That was Spock's doing, not really mine, but no problem," he muttered, picking at a string in the afghan flopped over his legs.

An almost companionable silence fell, in which he strained his ears for signs of the older man moving around or doing something – anything – but he heard nothing. Finally he sensed the man's presence next to the small sofa, and the rustle and creak which indicated Kirk had finally sat down across from him.

"I'm surprised you're not trying a little harder to figure out why Q decided to give you such a drastic handicap for this game he's playing," Kirk finally broke the silence cautiously.

"And how would you suggest I go about figuring that out?" he asked, rolling unseeing eyes. "Trawl the galactic nets for sightings of him and email his fan clubs?"

Kirk snorted. "I was thinking more along the lines of thinking about it for a while, instead of just running around like a spastic child who's lost a favorite toy, but if you want to play it that way…"

"I have been thinking about it," he said, slouching down in the seat and crossing his arms over his chest. "Not like I can really do anything else."

"You don't strike me as much of the deeply contemplative type."

"Well isn't that a coincidence, because I was just thinking the same thing about you."

"I'm not your enemy, you know," the old man said, with obvious amusement at his animosity – which only made him more irritating. "Why exactly do you dislike me so much? Is it that you don't like what you see, a possible you in half a century?"

"…And how am I supposed to answer that without being rude?" he asked pointedly, grinning. "Yeah, I'm not thrilled with everything about you, specially the hair – over my dead body, let me tell you right now; not flattering – but that's not why."

"Hm? Why, then?"

Jim was silent.

"Is it because you've tried for so long to break free of another man's shadow, that you don't want to have anything to do with me because I'm in essence just another figure for you to be compared to?"

"Who died and made you my shrink?" he asked wearily, pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand. "It's getting old, man."

Kirk's voice was calm, unruffled by his blunt and somewhat rude candor. "I don't see why it should affect your perception of me that much; after all, you said yourself, that we're two very different people."

"That's a good thing," he muttered. "But it's not that."

"No," was the thoughtful agreement. "It's more the fact that you know too much about us, me and Spock – my Spock – enough to know we made some big mistakes, but not enough to know how to avoid those same mistakes. Is that it?"

"Partly," he admitted, fingers laced together and resting on his knees as he sat up. The blanket fell to the floor from off his legs, but he wasn't going to embarrass himself by fumbling around on the ground for it. "Spock let me see too much there in that mind-dump or whatever you want to call it. I know there were some serious issues and serious mistakes you guys made, and I don't want to repeat them, or have anyone in my crew repeat them."

"But you can't rely on someone else's destiny if you believe you are in control of your own, and that's what scares you."

"Yeah." He sighed, looked (or turned his head at least, since he couldn't actually look) down at his clasped hands. "I don't trust Destiny to be the same for both our universes, since it's already screwed us over in this one. But…I don't…"

"Trust yourself, to make better decisions than I did," Kirk finished with a gentleness that was almost annoying.

"No. Yes. Well – oh, I don't know." He shook his head, rubbing at his temples. "You're worse than my father," he said bluntly, looking in the direction he knew the older man was sitting. "All my life, everyone talked about him and what an amazing person he was, blah blah blah. I only just stopped being George Kirk's son and started being Jim Kirk, captain of the Federation's flagship, when here you are – and the cycle begins all over again. Spock – Old Spock – worships the ground you walk on, anybody can see that, and I know that kind of loyalty isn't earned overnight."

"If you think your Spock doesn't feel that for you then you're even more of an idiot than I've thought you are."

He grinned despite the topic, because who else in the universe got to insult themselves? "I do know," he said finally, though it sounded unconvincing even to his own ears. "It's just that – well, that I know all it takes is one bad decision, one awful mistake, for me to blow everything I've worked for into a worse mess than you guys ever did. Q's telling me I'm about to screw up big time, but I don't know how to change it or even if I want to!"

"Whoa, hold on." He felt the sofa shift as the old man sat down beside him instead of across from him. "First off, it's possible that one bad decision can wreck your career or your relationships, but it's a pretty rare thing and would have to be a pretty spectacularly bad decision."

"Oh yeah?" He leaned back, turned half-toward the older man. "What's the worst decision you ever made?"

"I'm not sure I can narrow it down to one," was the rueful reply.

"Well, top five, then."

"Mm, I'll try. Probably the worst one...was accepting a position of Admiral at Starfleet Command after the Enterprise's five-year mission." Kirk's voice was quiet, pensive – and more than a little sad. "It was the most disastrous few years of my life."

"What happened?" he wondered aloud. It would take nothing less than a court-martial to force him to give up his silver lady. "Surely you weren't too old?"

"No, I wasn't, though I wasn't getting any younger." The cushions shifted beneath them. "The last of those five years was rough for us all, and by the time we limped into spacedock at the end of it all we were all due for a break. Tempers were flaring like you wouldn't believe, and I was the guiltiest of the bunch. I didn't want to be grounded for a year during the refit, but wasn't given a choice from Command, and took it out on everyone around me.

"Bones was the first one to drop the bomb; he announced he was retiring from Starfleet and going back to Georgia. He'd given no indications that he was to that point, and while I understood his reasons when he explained, it was still a horrible shock to me."

Wide-eyed, Jim nodded with complete understanding; he'd be devastated if Bones decided he'd had enough of disease and danger and darkness and silence, etc., and just bailed on him without a look back.

"Then…Spock. Where do I begin with that?" Kirk mused softly. "He was utterly lost, Jim. He'd lived and breathed _Enterprise _for sixteen years – eleven under Pike and five under me – and the fact that they offered him his own ship when we returned completely threw him for a loop." (1)

He froze. "They offered him his own ship?" he asked, feeling bile in his throat.

"Mmhm. Offered him the captaincy of a science vessel, a modest enough size and certainly a promotion in his stagnant career. And that's where I completely and totally made the worst mistake of my life."

Jim sat up, listening earnestly. "What was it?"

"I was too wrapped up in my own issues with Starfleet Command, and my own…well, I guess you can call it grieving, you should know what it's like, this gorgeous ship…about the _Enterprise _going under refit and our mission over with. I was so self-absorbed that I didn't even notice or care that he was struggling to decide, trying to figure out what to do and where his loyalties lay and how far those overlapped with his career. It was never easy for him, trying to be both human and Vulcan and ending up pleasing neither."

"Sounds like you were all a mess."

"We were, Jim. That last six months especially – I can't tell you everything, but we went to hell and back during those months. I didn't blame Bones for retiring, and I didn't blame Spock for what he finally decided he had to do…even if it broke my heart."

"Kolinahr," he supplied, because he'd at one point discussed it with both Spocks.

"Kolinahr," was the quiet agreement. "Spock told me one night that it was necessary, barely got my sanction – not approval, but he wasn't going to bail out without telling me first – and he was gone the next day. I didn't see or hear from him until two years later, when he showed up on my Bridge during an emergency mission."

Jim was silent, assimilating this. So their parallels were more close than he'd thought. Spock was, even now, trying to decide where he was going to land – either as his own captain, or continuing to follow one. He couldn't make the same mistakes as this Kirk, but he could well make different and equally disastrous ones.

"You blame your acceptance of a ground position for all that?" he asked.

"No," Kirk replied. "I didn't accept the position until after Bones and Spock had already left. I…didn't really see what else I could do. We were disastrously, unhealthily co-dependent, Jim, and while I don't like that we wasted those years I think we needed the time apart. I had to learn to stand on my own two feet as a Starfleet officer, rather than relying on the most brilliant Vulcan/Human in the galaxy to have my back and cover it if need be."

Interesting. Jim well knew he had trust issues aplenty, but this? Was interesting. "So you think you were trusting Spock too much?"

"I think I was trusting him more than I trusted myself, which was an imbalance," Kirk answered slowly. "I'd been so accustomed to turning and him never being more than a meter or so away, that I'd become unhealthily co-dependent on him. That kind of reliance isn't good for a command team, nor is it good for a stable relationship. Yes, I trust my own judgment, and yes, I also trust his equally as much - but the issue there was learning to balance the two and when to go with his judgment or my gut instinct. A command team needs to be more of a collaboration, and less of a symbiosis."

The hair on the back of his neck prickled at the vaguely-familiar words. (2)

"Spock had been my right-hand man for so long he didn't know who he was anymore, and I'd taken him for granted for so many years that I'd lost sight of who _I _was."

"Starfleet Command's offered Spock his own ship," he blurted suddenly, completely unrelated to their tangent, and Kirk paused mid-sentence. Hands clenched, he looked up. "I don't know what to do, how to advise him, or if I should even try. I can't screw this up, do you have any idea the damage it'll do to both of us if I make the wrong decision?"

"And we finally get to the heart of the matter." Kirk's words were kind, but with an edge of relief. "I thought you'd never spit out whatever was behind all this."

"I don't need you to patronize me," he snapped.

"No, but you do need me to help you sort out your trust issues, now don't you. Who's better qualified, all things considered?"

Jim blew out a deep breath, and flopped back onto the sofa, arm curled behind his head. "I'm probably going to regret this, but fire when ready."

"Are you sure you want to hear anything I have to say?"

"Nope," he returned, smirking. "But I've been accused before of loving to hear myself talk, and we all know what a soliloquizing drama queen _you_are. Match made in heaven, yeah?"

"If it wouldn't be all kinds of awkward, I'd be sorely tempted to give you a good spanking right now like the child you are."

"You wouldn't be able to catch me, Gramps."

A sofa pillow hit him in the face. "Hey, no hitting the blind man!"

"Then let's work on rectifying that, shall we?"

"I'm all ears." Random thought, as he remembered Bones's crack to Spock when the Vulcan had facetiously said the same thing a few weeks before. "Hey, what d'you think we'd look like with pointed ears?"

"I've been reliably informed, 'not aesthetically agreeable'." (3)

"…Ooookay?"

"And don't ask Spock about it. That wasn't a mission either of us were at all proud of."

"Yeah, I've had a few of those myself."

"Your fault?"

"For blindly following orders, I guess yeah."

"I hear you. Now, back to Spock. Your Spock. You say Command's offered him his own ship?"

"Yeah, the _Excelsior_. Pike's recommended him for the post, and I've put my own recommendation in for him even if I hated myself for doing it," he muttered. "Not like I could be a whiny child and ask him not to leave. He deserves the break, I'll be the first to admit that."

"Interesting. When does he decide?"

"They wanted to promote him after our first mission ended, but he told them he'd give the _Enterprise _another six months and for them to ask again at that time. That six months is up like, any day now."

Kirk's tone was serious. "Has he said anything to you about it?"

"Not a word, and I don't want to bring it up, especially with the amount of arguing we've been doing lately as it is…"

"Yes, I've been hearing about that." Amusement tinged the older man's voice. "Have you noticed that we tend to get griped about by our respective counterparts, to each other?"

"If you mean do I know that Spock vents to your Spock about how illogical and human and emotional I am, then yeah." He grinned. "Yours does the same thing, by the way. Double the fun and all that."

Kirk's laugh was infectious, and he found himself going along with it despite the seriousness of what they were talking about. "He's the best thing that ever happened to me, and I include getting the _Enterprise _in that," the old man said fondly. "Even if he drives me absolutely insane part of the time."

"_Most _of the time," Jim snorted. "Like charges repel, and brother do we repel. This whole tiff we had about the last active mission was ridiculous; he just doesn't see things my way and he won't even try."

"Why is that, do you think?"

"Because 'he knows he is in the right, and it is illogical to change one's mind if one is correct,'" he recited verbatim from their last full-blown verbal barrage.

"And is he?"

"Is he what?"

"Is he in the right?"

"From a certain point of view," he replied fairly. "But not from mine."

"And yours is more right than his – why?"

"Because I'm the Captain and it's my responsibility; my crew, and my decisions."

"But you just told me not ten minutes ago that you don't necessarily trust your decisions," Kirk reminded him quietly. "And if you don't even believe in _yourself _fully, then how do you expect to convince one of the most logical and loyal species in the galaxy that he should trust you?"

Okay. That made sense, pretty much. And it hurt, too. "Yeah, I do hate you," he muttered, curling up on his side against the back of the sofa. He curled his left arm under his head, and sighed.

"Vulcan loyalty is the most priceless, and the most rare, of all qualities in the galaxy," Kirk said, obviously smiling. "And if you can earn it, it will empower you to do anything and take on anyone, knowing you have that behind you. But it's not given lightly, kid. I think you have Spock's loyalty – I've seen the way he looks at you, seen how he defers to you even in the little things. The only exception is regarding your safety, am I right?"

"Of course," he grunted. He rubbed a nose itch on the side of his sleeve, and slumped down resignedly. "It's the only thing he crosses me on."

"And you don't trust his judgment on regulation and security, why?"

"I do trust it," he protested. "I'd be an idiot not to. It's just that –"

"That what?"

"I just trust myself more, I guess," he muttered gracelessly, muffled half into his sleeve and the sofa back. "I have to know, _I _have to _know_, that my people are safe. I have to be involved, I can't just sit back and let everyone else work and sweat and live and even die just because they want me to stay out of the firing line."

"So you don't trust your crew to do their jobs properly, is what you're saying."

"No!" Indignant, he lifted his head and glared at the older man. "They're the best at what they do!"

"But you think you can do their jobs better than they can?" was the pointed question. "Why do you even have a ship, kid, if you can only trust yourself to see that things get done?"

"You're twisting my –"

"I'm twisting nothing," Kirk retorted. "You just said you trust your people, and yet you won't let them do what they're supposed to do – protect you and the ship foremost. You say you trust your First Officer, but you're afraid to discuss his promotion with him. You supposedly trust your Security forces, but you insist on breaking safety protocols even when your SC has come to you privately to beg you to listen to reason."

Jim went still. "How do you know about that one?" he asked, teeth clenched. "I don't tolerate gossip on this ship."

He felt a shift in weight as the older man leaned forward. "It wasn't gossip, because no one told me, Jim," was the calm answer. He felt a tentative, gentle hand on his arm. "I know because _it happened to me at one point_."

Jim licked his dry lips, wishing he'd made himself some espresso before trying to have this conversation. "When?" he asked hoarsely.

When the answer came, it was full of regret, remorse – painful memory. "Four months before our five-year mission ended. Giotto and I had a blow-up over an away mission, and Spock sided with him instead of me, for the first time in four and a half years."

Oh.

_Oh_.

"All I'm asking is that you consider the fact that right and wrong aren't necessarily black and white," Kirk continued quietly. "Especially when it comes to command decisions, we both know the gray areas are far larger than the cut-and-dried, by-the-book opportunities. You can be right and your First Officer not be wrong, Jim. And if you refuse to acknowledge that…well, let me tell you it doesn't make for a pleasant voyage, and it can damage a relationship to the breaking point."

The older man stood; Jim felt the couch shift under them and spring back into position, felt the breeze as Kirk reset the air controls to the slightly lower temperature they had been prior to his entering. "Think about it," he suggested lightly. "That's all anyone can ask from you. You want me to help you into the sleeping alcove?"

"No," he murmured absently, fingers picking at the cushions as his mind whirred. "I got it, thanks."

"Right, then I'm going to go see how mad Spock is at me for touching things I'm not supposed to in the labs," Kirk said.

Jim cracked a weak smile. "Good luck."

"Same to you, kid," the old man said meaningfully. "The same to you."

* * *

><p>In retrospect, Jim was rather proud of the fact that it only took him three hours of thinking, analyzing, verbally making notes and charts, and finally pitching a minor tantrum and hurling a padd at the wall, to realize his older counterpart was correct, at least to a degree.<p>

It all came down to pride and risk, he finally realized, somewhere into early ship's morning. He was right, he knew he was; but on the tiny off-chance that he wasn't – was he willing to risk making the same errors Kirk had in his own universe? Was he willing to risk Spock's career, his own relationships (and he was horrible enough at relationships, everyone knew that), and the pride of his talented crew, all over his belief that he was in the right?

Q had said he was headed for more heartbreak than he would ever be willing to pay – and only a fool would continue on a path which obviously could cost him that dearly.

"Right, then," he muttered to himself and the personal data-recorder (so he could remember this conversation and hold himself to it when he wasn't feeling the emotional repercussions of their talk), lifting his head from the desk for the first time in the last miserable half-hour. "I'm not saying I'm wrong but I am going to have an open mind here. That's all I can truthfully promise."

He reached to turn off the personal data-recorder, and froze, jaw dropping.

The green light winked cheerfully at him.

He could _see_.

* * *

><p>Lieutenant Uhura had finished her conference with Commander Spock regarding crew morale and the effects of Q's threat about an hour before. They had agreed to meet regularly in order to protect the captain from any rumors aboard ship, and also to discuss measures to be taken which might give them any sort of edge against the semi-malevolent deity. Tonight had been another of those reconnaissances, though they had accomplished little due to a lack of information. Spock had been distracted all evening, and she knew only part of it was due to the events of the day. He had much on his mind, and she knew better – respected him too much – than to try to pry it out of him. Instead, she'd bid him good night and returned to her quarters (well before it got late enough in ship's night that rumors would start).<p>

While she wasn't pleased to be woken up ten minutes after sleeping, she was thrilled to hear the reason for Spock's impromptu and highly irregular comm. That was the main hurdle in Q's machinations vaulted; they needed their captain at full capacity if they stood a good chance of beating the odds. There was only so much she and the rest of the crew could do – and she had long since recognized that Jim Kirk was the spirit and heart of the Enterprise.

"Do you think that's the end of it, then?" Uhura asked soberly. "It seems a little too easy, doesn't it?"

_"More than 'a little',"_ was the answer, and Spock's discomfiture showed clearly even through the distortion of a comm-channel. She shivered at the resignation in his tone. _"However, we can but hope that the captain's optimism is justified. His intuition does prove to be correct approximately ninety-two-point-four percent of the time; nonetheless, I should be much surprised to discover that the game has ended."_

* * *

><p>Outside the bounds of perceptible dimension, the Omnipotent known as Q shook his head in mock deprecation at the playing field before him.<p>

"Oh no, my dear captain," he said with a self-satisfied smirk. "I believe you will find that it has only just begun."

* * *

><p><strong>End Opening Gambit<strong>

* * *

><p>(1) This and the next portion is speculation on my part, a portion of a WIP I may or may not get around to finishing. For those new to my writing, I reject the novelization of the ST movies as Canon, and see as Canon what's on the screen. Therefore, I don't buy into the idea of Spock leaving for Gol without first getting if not Kirk's approval, then at least his acknowledgement.<p>

(2) This is referencing Q's description of AOS Kirk and Spock's differences from TOS, in _Second-Best Destiny_

(3) Referencing the TOS episode_ The Enterprise Incident_


	7. Middle Game:  Forced Move

**_III. Middle Game _**

* * *

><p><strong><em>Forced move: a move for which there is only one reply; or if more than one possible reply, only one which is less undesirable<em>**

_Captain's Official Log, Stardate 2264.6_

_The Enterprise is still in orbit around the uncharted planet which popped up on our sensors two days ago. Commander Spock and his Science teams are of the opinion that the unique physiology and topography of the planet bear further studies than were originally intended upon our orbital achievement. As we have ample time remaining before we must reach the peace negotiations at Delta, I have authorized several additional science exploration teams to learn all we can about the mystery planet (classified hereafter in reports as Planet 3697-D; I wanted to name it something awesome like Planet Shouldn't-Be-Here but Spock as usual nixed that idea with undue severity, so all you admirals can rest in peace about it) which, by all accounts, should not exist. I have spent several hours with our library and research teams scanning the information we possess about this sector, with no positive results concerning the planet below. It quite simply shouldn't be here, and its appearance does not precisely match the scans the Science departments are performing regarding its makeup._

_It does, however, appear to be entirely benign. No signs of harmful animal or plant life, no signs of any intelligent life period, and carrying several as-yet undiscovered varieties of medicinal-like plants and herbs which the Botany labs are having a field day with. As the planet appears to be harmless, and as we have had a dozen crew teams down without incident, I have authorized the Vulcan delegation to also disembark for a brief time, as they are as eager for scientific discovery as my own people are._

_There have been no incidents worth reporting regarding our ambassadorial guests. They have behaved admirably toward my crew and should be commended for their conduct. Transporting civilians is rarely a pleasant task for a starship, but in this case a repeat performance would be more than welcomed. Indeed, the _Enterprise_ has become the primary ship of engagement between New Vulcan and the rest of the galaxy, which makes myself and my crew the primary, if unofficial, diplomats toward this still-endangered race. It is my First Officer's hope that the planet below may yield some agricultural knowledge which could be useful to the Vulcan culture, and who am I to stifle his scientific excitement?_

_Lieutenant-Commander Scott and Lieutenant Keenser assure me that the stopover has been beneficial to the Engineering department, allowing them time badly needed to perform engine maintenance and upgrades which cannot be done while the ship is at warp. Efficiency in those departments is expected to increase by point-six percent due to the additions. Evaluations will be attached with my next report. Lieutenant Uhura's report on Communications efficiency and experimental personnel shifting is attached to Dr. McCoy's evaluations of the department as a whole._

_For all other inquiries regarding Planet 3697-D, Commander Spock will be attaching a full and extremely detailed report on his departments' findings._

_As I am now certified to begin active duty with my regained eyesight, I will be beaming down with the final exploration party (also comprised of First Officer Spock, Lieutenant Sulu for his botanical expertise, Lieutenant Chekov because the kid hasn't been planetside in over three months and needs to get a life, Lieutenant Anderssen from Spock's primary Xenobotanical team, and Security men McDonnell and Greco) to oversee the last tests being performed on our mystery planet._

_But regardless of the mystery planet and its secrets, we will be underway in no less than forty-eight hours for the peace conferences at Delta, as per Starfleet orders. _

_With regards to the incidents of a few days previous and my temporary incapacitation, Dr. McCoy has pronounced me completely fit for full and active duty. (See attached for his complete medical report and evaluation.) Whatever lessons Q was attempting to teach me, I have apparently learned them, at least at this stage of the game. As Mr. Spock has just comm-ed me to inform me that the landing party will be awaiting my arrival with finalized reports regarding the planet, I think I'm safe in saying this mission, while slightly mysterious, will shortly be concluded to our satisfaction, allowing us to proceed on our mission of transporting the Vulcan delegation to Delta._

* * *

><p>He beamed down to the planet, still smiling over the simple fact that he could <em>see<em>the sparkle of the transporter beam as it dissembled his molecular structure. Small pleasures, but ones that he would not take for granted after this.

From the looks on the faces of his waiting crew, it appeared that they were all equally glad to see him back to normal (or what amounted to normal for him, at least). The two security men clapped him on the back, and even Spock's studious science protégé looked up briefly from note-taking to offer him a smile of welcome.

"Welcome back, Captain," Spock vocalized the sentiment with adorable formality, and he grinned.

"Good to be back, Mr. Spock, and hopefully free of Q's interference for good since I've learned my lesson. Now what've we got?"

"The survey crew in the shuttles have successfully mapped the majority of the planet's surface for topological research and mapping purposes," Spock reported, consulting his tricorder, "with the sole exception of the land directly on the other side of this ridge."

"Why that area?"

"It appears to have some sort of dampening field overlaying an area of roughly three kilometers square," was the somewhat puzzling reply. "There is no indication of the interference being non-naturally generated, and yet the area is roughly square-shaped, which indicates that it is an artificially-generated phenomenon."

"But the weird thing, Captain," Sulu interjected, "is that all of our scans from the last two days showed that the planet was not inhabited beyond basic plant life, not even being a habitat to basic animal life forms, and that there were no indications of technological development on any scale."

"So either we have a weirdly regular-occurring natural phenomenon in this area, or else someone's here and is pretty good about hiding their traces, since they didn't show up on any of our aerial reconnaissances either," he summarized, cocking an inquisitive eyebrow at his First.

Spock nodded. "Correct. It may very well be simple magnetic interference from minerals in the deposits there, or it might be some sort of base whose occupants desire to remain cloaked from –"

_"Enterprise to landing party, Enterprise to landing party – come in!" _Jim's communicator squawked frantically into life on his hip.

Scotty shouldn't sound that panicked, ever. His gut clenched in an indefinable instinct of sick fear. In one fluid motion the instrument was at his mouth. "Kirk here. Report," he barked.

_"Captain! I dinna how to explain it, or how to tell you this…"_

He tasted blood; he'd bit his lip too hard. "Spit it out, Scotty!"

The Engineer's frantic voice was shot through with panic, heard indistinctly over the shrill wail of a blaring Level One klaxon. _"Sir somethin's activated the ship's self-destruct!"_

For an instant he froze, his brain unable to process this in its sudden shock; then the instincts of a captain kicked in. Ignoring the horrified looks from his crew, he latched onto the communicator with both hands, turning away slightly so they couldn't see he was two seconds away from sheer panic. "That's not possible – it has to have my authorization codes and Spock's to even initialize, much less complete the sequence, and neither of us are on board!"

_"I DINNA KNOW HOW BUT IT'S COUNTIN' DOWN!"_ the Engineer fairly screamed, and above the sound he could hear the mechanical female voice of the computer counting down from…oh god, from _ninety_. The blood drained from his face, and he could see the mirroring horror on Spock's.

There wasn't time to wonder how or why. "General Order Thirteen! Abandon ship, all hands! Do it NOW!" he roared. When the self-destruct started, everyone should have immediately run for the escape pods or, since they were in orbit, the transporter room – drill or not, that was protocol…but there were twelve hundred people aboard, and only a two-minute countdown before an internally-triggered destruct… (1)

_"Aye, sir! But I just canna figure out what happened to the puir lady –"_

His hands were shaking so hard they threatened to drop the communicator. From somewhere behind him, he heard the murmur of a prayer in Russian.

"Fifty seconds, sir," Spock said softly from behind him.

"Shut up and get yourself to an escape pod or beam-out point, Scotty!" he shouted.

_"Aye, sir…and, Captain."_ There was a short pause, and then a choked-out, _"Ah'm so sorry!"_

He swallowed hard, which did nothing to ease the obstruction in his throat or the sick flare of nausea which was creeping up from his stomach. "Mr. Greco, Mr. McDonnell," he said, turning to fix the stricken Security guards with a look, "get on those communicators and see if you can locate anyone who's beamed down to the planet. Arrange rendezvous."

"Yes, sir!" The two men snapped into immediate work, obviously glad to have something to take their minds off the nightmare happening all around them.

"Time, Spock?" he whispered.

"Twenty-one seconds," the Vulcan answered bleakly.

"Two minutes isn't enough time for twelve hundred people to evacuate," he said flatly.

Silence. Then, "Negative," was the soft reply.

With an inarticulate howl of rage, he whirled around and drove his fist into the nearest small tree, which thankfully was young and pliant and so only bent under his force rather than breaking all the bones in his hand. "There are a hundred security protocols to prevent a freak malfunction like this – how can it possibly be _happening_?" he shouted, shaking the young tree trunk with both hands before resting his head against it, eyes burning.

Spock's shake of the head, and his crew's still-stunned expressions, were no answer.

"It should not be possible," Chekov spoke up, his young face paper-white.

"I believe that's what I just _said_, Ensign!" he snapped, whirling on the navigator. Some small portion of his brain told him it wasn't the guy's fault, and he shouldn't be taking his hurt and rage out on the poor kid, but at this point he was past caring. His ship was going down, and he hadn't even been aboard her when disaster struck.

Chekov's wide eyes just looked at him, understanding rather than hurt in their depths, and he averted his gaze, ashamed, to plant his back against the solidity of the scraggly tree-trunk and lean with a hand over his eyes.

Then the sky erupted.

His head jerked up, everything else in his vision tunneling out into fuzzy gray until all he could see was that so very precious fireball streaking across the planet's sky, looking like a grotesque parody of a shooting star. Smaller fireworks exploded, dotted across the atmosphere as debris impacted each other or detonated from the self-destruct programming, punctuating the wake of the fireball as they watched, like tiny baby novas following the grandmother of all nuclear explosions.

That was what was left of his ship's saucer section.

His Enterprise.

His _world_.

Vision swimming into a spotted, murky gray, he didn't realize he'd slid down the small tree to the ground until he felt Spock's hand on the back of his neck, gently pushing his head toward his knees. He complied numbly, willing himself to not give in to shock.

"Radiation report, Ensign?" he heard the quiet inquiry over his head, Spock's voice muffled, like he was speaking into a drum of cotton-wool.

"Acceptable levels, sir," was the shaking reply.

His crew was scared; he heard it in the quiet voices. They were scared petrified, and in shock, and they needed him – needed a leader.

Even if now he was leading a few dozen people instead of a shipful. If that.

He lifted his head, to see the landing party looking down at him with concern mingled with delayed shock as the realizations slowly set in. Taking Spock's offered hand, he hauled himself back to his feet, firmly forcing back his horror and grief and utter terror at what had just happened. There was no time for his breakdown, not now. He could give in and let it all out later, when no one but Spock and Bones –

_Bones_.

Medical was always the last to evacuate unless there were critical patients in Sickbay – and in this case there hadn't been.

"Do we know who made it out yet?" he asked hoarsely.

Spock's science lieutenant – Anderssen, his numb brain supplied – gave him a half-scared, half grief-stricken look. He remembered that the young man had a girlfriend on board, and winced. "Not yet, sir," the lieutenant replied quietly, looking to the Security men for confirmation. Both shook their heads, trying other frequencies on the communicators. "I've picked up one signal which indicates either an escape pod or large debris incoming about two and a half kilometers west of us."

Ice started through his veins instead of blood, turning his extremities freezing cold. Shock, his mind supplied not-helpfully. "Just the one?"

"Yes, sir. Captain, I'm sorry – this basic tricorder won't pick up signals farther away than three kilometers."

"There could well be more pods which would land on the other side of the planet, as that would follow the trajectory of the ship's remains," Spock pointed out. "If so, then one of the communicators should be able to contact them; it is a matter of finding the proper frequency and boosting the signals to cut through the radiation from the explosion."

Jim cringed along with the rest of them at the calm terminology of a horrific accident, but the motion went unnoticed by the Vulcan as he gathered up his lieutenant with a nod and proceeded to begin dissecting both tricorders and a communicator on the nearest flat surface. He could only hope that their combined talents and high-tech Starfleet engineering would be able to give them some indication of how high the casualties had been.

The sheer number of people who would still have been on board when she went down was enough to make him sick. The Vulcan ambassadorial party; his older self, and the one person in the galaxy who had trusted and loved him at first sight – Ambassador Spock (that alone made him want to cry like a baby right now, far more than when his own grandparents had died). Bones, oh _Bones_…he couldn't let himself dwell on that possibility too long if he didn't want to crack up in front of his crew. Scotty, faithful, loyal Scotty, who had cheerfully taken command when Jim had beamed down a quarter of an hour ago – what could have happened in fifteen minutes, to do this? Uhura…and Jim knew his First well enough by now to see the rigid tension which had entered the stiff shoulders, and would not be released until they knew the fate of their closest friends. Nurse Chapel, who was his favorite buffer between incensed CMO and reckless Captain. Security Chief Giotto, whom he still hadn't had time to commend for increasing the Security efficiency by four percent in the last month.

His new yeoman, Marlena Moreau. Spock's favorite protégé in Xenobio, Lieutenant Br'tho. Comms lieutenant Kevin Riley. Engineer Charlene Masters. Nurse Tanya Bodine. Beta-shift navigator Bailey. Their new Xenobiological specialist, Jorge M'Benga. Bones's gorgeous if brief fling last year, Yeoman Tonia Barrows. Quartermaster's assistant O'Dell. Security Lieutenant Garrovick. Recreational Programming Ensign Liesel Anderson.

Andrews, Kathryn, Engineering. Ansel, Doran, Xenosociological Development. Ans'shrkt, Bor-da'kn, Communications. Apley, Craig, Engineering. Apoca, Melina, Library Databasing. April, Louden, Maintenance. April, Logan, Experimental Biology. Arat, Boris, Communications. Arcadia, Dei, Security. Archer, Patrick, Historical Databasing. Ashton, Robert, Security. Astrosa, Pietro, Botany. A'tar, Doa, Political Sciences. Attison, Ron, Maintenance. Averi-

"Captain. _Captain_."

The single word, delivered in a tone of command close to his ear, struck through the chaotic jumble of names in his head, driving back the clouds of guilt and panic and horror and a mind wanting to shut down under the impact. He knew them all, each of his crew by name, every single last solitary one of them –

He couldn't breathe.

_Jim._

He jerked, startled, as the word fluttered unspoken against his consciousness, and in that instant of clarity realised he wasn't breathing, or at least was gasping shallowly. Cold reason cleared his head in a matter of seconds, and he came back to himself with a start, realizing that Spock had his head in both Vulcan-strong hands and was trying to mentally pull him back from the hell his mind had retreated into, one his own mind and his own decisions had blindly led his people – and they had paid the price, not him.

_My God, what have I done?_

"Captain!"

Air like broken glass struggled into his lungs, and the resulting flood of oxygen cleared his head. Spock's eyes were pinched, forehead creased with both anxiety and tension, and the sight reminded him that he was not – or rather should not be – shouldering the burden of the tragedy all alone.

"…Right. Thanks," he managed to stammer sincerely, hoping his voice wasn't shaking as badly as he was. "Thanks, Spock."

Sympathy from shared grief, stark and bare, shone out of those dark eyes. "Are you…" Jim had the unaccountable urge to give in to hysterics as he saw the words _all right_form and die on the Vulcan's lips in the knowledge that they were all anything but, "…functional, sir?"

He nodded, inhaling through his nose and out through his mouth in a familiar breathing exercise Bones had long ago trained him on as a method of dealing with migraines.

Bones. Tamping firmly down on the thought, he shook himself, visibly, in an effort to do the same mentally. "Report, Mr. Spock," he said briskly, slipping back into command mode, a tried-and-true coping mechanism.

"Tricorder readings show radiation levels consistent with those of a controlled warp engine implosion as would be seen in a shipwide self-destruct, Captain," the Vulcan reported quietly. "While transmissions will be distorted in such radiation, the levels will not be fatal to humanoid life except in lengthy exposure times."

"Lengthy meaning…?"

"Months, at least."

"Good." Survivors would be all right for the present, then, and that meant that they wouldn't have to quarantine the sector due to fallout. "Status of communications?"

"I believe Lieutenant Anderssen and I have sufficiently modified the communicator, aided by components of the transmission properties from our combined tricorders, to enable a broadcast signal of considerable strength; meaning, anywhere on the planet, though not above the planet's atmosphere due to radiation."

He blinked. "You mean the signal will reach anyone on the planet who has a communicator?"

Spock nodded. "While this will not enable us to contact those in escape pods until said pods reach the surface of the planet, it will at the least be able to be received by any shuttles or those who beamed down to the surface prior to the…explosion."

"I could kiss you," he said with enthusiasm, elbowing the Vulcan in a friendly fashion as he passed. He felt Spock's tolerant mental eye-roll practically bounce off the back of his head. "Let's see it, Anderssen."

"Aye, sir. As Mr. Spock said, in theory if any survivors are in possession of a communicator, that communicator will be able to receive our signal, sir. Using the analyzation transmitter circuitry, and boosting the power gain using the tricorder's recording cell relay, we were able to amplify the transmission signal to a power of four, from the usual comm-channels. This enables us to blanket broadcast to any receiver of size within in a distance of, oh, at least several hundred kilometers, though not vertically above the atmospheric shell of the planet due to the widespread effects of radiation in the upper atmosphere at the present time. Any transmitter on the planet's surface should, in theory, receive our transmission, though only those with a sufficiently-powered relay loop such as a comm-unit will be able to respond to it."

He stared at the young man. "Do you train them all to talk like that?" he finally asked, shooting an incredulous glance at his First.

Spock's eyebrow went up a half-inch.

Anderssen blushed slightly. "Do you want to send out an automated beacon, sir?" he asked with remarkable tact; Jim appreciated the thought. Frankly, he would definitely rather just send out a homing signal.

Biting his lip, he glanced up at Spock, who regarded him solemnly; obviously deferring to his judgment. And that tore it; he owed it to his remarkably patient and loving crew.

"No, Lieutenant," he said hoarsely, moving to a squatting position next to the tricked-out tricorder. "This is my crew, and this has to come from me." He cleared his throat, willing it to stay that way, and lifted the communicator carefully from the pile of wiring and heaven-only-knew-what-else his brilliant people had jury-rigged. From his peripheral, he saw Sulu with an arm slung around a still-stunned-looking Chekov's shoulders, and his two Security men standing on guard around them despite their evident grief.

These were his people, his magnificent people, and for their sake he had to be Captain Kirk right now.

And he had to start talking before he lost his nerve completely.

"Attention all hands, this is the Captain." Good, a strong and business-like tone, with an appropriate edge of grave sadness; much like the one he'd had to use when he spoke at the first-year anniversary memorial service for the fallen heroes of the Battle of Vulcan. He saw his men stand just a bit straighter, look a bit less lost, just at the sound of his voice, and realized anew the incredible responsibility he held in inadequate hands.

"All hands, this is the Captain. I know what's just happened, but I don't know how. And I…look, I'm sorry. So sorry. But we're Starfleet, remember, and because we are there will be future time enough for investigation and remembrance. Right now, we need to regroup for safety reasons, and for moral support during the next few hours. Anyone within hearing of this communication please respond with your location and condition of health." He repeated the same basic message, a little less disjointedly, and then Spock did something logical and Vulcan and awesome and crap and set his statement on a loop to replay continuously.

"Well, that's that," he heard Sulu say softly, as the loop replayed for the fourth time.

_No one's answered_, was what they were all thinking.

"Keep in mind, sir," Greco spoke up hesitantly, and Jim turned toward him, "that Security regulations say all communicators are to be locked up unless they are in use – and no one's going to stop to get one out of a locker if they're evacuating via transporter. Just because no one's answering doesn't mean that – that no one survived, sir. And escape pods are equipped with receivers, not with transmitters, and just an emergency beacon. They could be hearing us but not able to respond."

He blinked, wondering why that had not occurred to him until now. "Bless you, Mr. Greco," he answered, giving the offering of a small smile. "You're quite correct, of course."

"If that is the case, they vill still have been glad to hear your voice, sir," Chekov piped up with almost unnatural cheerfulness, as if the poor kid (sheesh, he wasn't a kid anymore except by comparison; he had to stop calling the poor guy that) was trying just a bit too hard to act like their world hadn't just shattered around them. "Is not in vain, at least."

"What do we do now, Captain?" McDonnell asked, looking around them at the desolate countryside.

Jim honestly hadn't thought that far ahead; his mind had gone down with his ship, crashing and burning. He met Spock's dark, determined gaze, and the Vulcan gave a slight nod of encouragement. A thought-ghost, flickered briefly, wraithlike, and then dissipated.

_What you always do. Turn death into a fighting chance. _(2)

"We move on," he said, straightening up and brushing his tunic free of dust and twigs. "We head for that thing your tricorder picked up, Lieutenant, and see if it's a crashed escape pod. And then we fan out and continue to comb the countryside until we round up as many of our people as we can and organize ourselves for safety and tactical advantage. Then we'll come back to this unscannable area and search it for anything which could be of use to us while we wait for Starfleet to send a rescue ship. And then, we will try to figure out what could possibly have happened in fifteen minutes which would trigger a self-destruct despite all security precautions and failsafes."

"The ship's logs should have been jettisoned before the self-destruct completed," Spock mused. "Given the nature of the current radiation signature, which should draw the attention of any passing ship's sensors, it should not be long before Command Central realizes what has happened and sends a ship for rescue purposes. We need only remain alive until then."

_And find out why she went down in the first place_, Jim thought with a sharp stab of grief.

His spiraling thoughts of despair shattered on the instant when the rigged communicator sparked into life.

_"Captain Kirk, we are receiving your transmission loop, please respond,"_a familiar, calm voice, entirely accustomed to the intricacies of communications systems, sounded.

* * *

><p>(1) The TOS NCC-1701 only had a crew complement of 432, including Kirk and the command crew. The Reboot movie looks like the ship would hold considerably more than that, and this story is set after a refit (The TMP refitted Enterprise looked to have expanded in the interim) so I've made the crew complement considerably larger.<br>(2) Italicized lines in this chapter are from TWOK; they belong to Paramount, Roddenberry, and the writers of the motion pictures.


	8. Middle Game: Bad Bishop

**_III. Middle Game _**

* * *

><p><strong><em>Bad Bishop: when a bishop has little or no mobility due to being hemmed in by pawns positioned on squares of the same color<em>**

Sulu and Chekov high-fived each other as Jim let out a whoop of celebration, diving for the instrument. He saw Spock's pale face regain a tinge of color, and shot the Vulcan an encouraging grin as he skidded to a halt next to the instrument.

"Uhura, I _love _you!" he fairly shouted into the instrument once he'd cut the feedback loop.

A snort sounded through the channel. _"Save it, Captain."_

"Uhura, are you okay? Where are you, who's with you? Have you heard from anyone else? I'm flying blind here, gorgeous."

_"I'm perfectly fine, so you can tell Spock to stop hovering over your shoulder," _was the dry reply, and he turned a smirk up at the chagrined Vulcan who was doing just that. Even though they weren't dating any more, they had some weird symbiotic friends-with-not-really-benefits-but-way-too-much-knowledge sort of relationship. It was adorable, and a little scary, when they worked in tandem to run circles around him and his unsuspecting crew. _"I'm with Lieutenant Riley and Ensign Vro-Hathwa; we were repairing circuitry near Transporter Room One when it all went to hell, and we beamed down together."_ His eyes burned in relief at the knowledge that Kevin Riley, at least, had survived._ "I had a communicator on me because we were buried in the Jefferies Tubes where there are no wall comm-panels. I'm sorry, sir, but I don't know of anyone else's whereabouts; Lieutenant Kyle wasn't doing more than verifying that the coordinates were on the ground surface somewhere before he was transporting people out as fast as he could."_

His eyes stung at the knowledge that his gallant Assistant Security Chief had stayed by his post and possibly saved many of his crew in the crucial two-minute countdown. "Lieutenant, do you know what happened up there?" he asked soberly. "There's no way in the universe that the self-destruct could have been activated without my and Spock's authorization codes; and we were both on the surface."

_"I have no idea, sir. I'm so sorry."_Grief and horror were evident in his comms chief's lovely voice, and he lowered his head, hoping against hope that these three people were not all that was left of his crew.

"You have nothing to apologize for, Lieutenant," he replied quietly.

_"Sir, I am a superior officer; I should have –"_

"You should have gotten out of there as fast as you could," he snapped back with emphasis. "We all know protocol."

_"With all respect, sir, you and your father don't have a monopoly on heroics."_

He blinked. "Your ex-girlfriend just _lectured _me, Spock."

Spock's innocent expression was entirely guileless. "Why do you think the lieutenant is, as you say, my _ex_-girlfriend?"

Chekov inhaled a passing insect, setting him off in a violent coughing fit. Anderssen dropped the wire coil he was holding in dead shock. Sulu looked like he was wavering between running from an insane Vulcan or falling over giggling like a girl.

Jim stared at his First for a moment, and then, stress and emotional turmoil rampaging to the top, collapsed against the rock, howling with nearly-hysterical laughter. His wonderful crew let him laugh until he cried a little, and then he managed to pull himself together to answer the squawking comm.

_"I heard that, Commander,"_ Uhura's icy voice sent a chill down his spine, which he covered by another nervous laugh. _"If I didn't think you were trying to perform some weird Vulcan therapy on your crewmates I'd switch the text in your next treatise for the NVSA into urban Orion innuendo, see how _that_ livens up the Scientific Council!"_

Spock's eyebrows did his speaking for him, leaving Jim to bite the bullet. He could seriously hug the guy for relieving the tension like that; it had been so very necessary and he was so very grateful.

"Uhura."

_"Aye, sir."_ Amusement was clear in her tone; everyone knew she knew why Spock had uncharacteristically 'made a joke' at her expense. _"Do me a favor and slap Mr. Spock for me?"_

"Not a chance," he said with an elaborate shudder. "Hel-lo, getting choked over a console? Not happening again."

Spock's ears turned an interesting shade of sage.

"Uhura, do you know your location?" he finally got down to business.

_"Negative. We had no time to check coordinates and I don't have a tricorder. We're on a sort of prairie, or plain; basic flat land and grass, a ridge of low mountains or foothills to the…well, the opposite of whatever direction the sun of this world is; it's shining directly on to the sides of the mountains now."_

"Not within the range of our scans, sir," Anderssen said without being prompted, examining the tricorder. "And the topography of the planet showed us in our mapping that there is only one ridge of mountains, which runs oddly continuously around almost the entire planet. Literally, they could be anywhere."

"It will take days to find one other if we do not find some sort of rapid transportation," Spock observed. "Still no response on a shuttle frequency, Lieutenant?"

"None, sir."

"Two minutes isn't enough time for the bay to decompressurize, much less let a shuttle take off," Jim said dismissively. "Look, Uhura, I hate to do this to you but I need you to pick a direction and just start walking. Try to find some landmarks, or barring that, keep yourself and your people hydrated. Find a water supply and food if you can, and shelter. We have no idea what kind of freak weather this planet might have."

_"Makes sense, sir. We accomplish nothing by standing here in the middle of a prairie. You'd love it, farm boy."_

He smiled at the familiar teasing, knowing by this point in the game that it was her way of helping him relieve stress, rather than borderline disrespect as it had been during the first unstable months of their first mission. "Keep checking in with us. If we figure out a way to locate you we'll be in touch. If you come to some sort of landmark, or a water source, stay there; at least you'll still be alive when help comes."

_"Acknowledged. Uhura out."_

"Keptin, sir," Chekov's excited voice made him turn, to see that the young navigator had taken his tricorder – the one which had not been dismantled – and had converted a map into a 3-d projection. "I am making a scale model of this planet based upon the completed scans, and look." He sketched a diagram with his finger. "Is a wery strange planet, topographically. Here, we are," and he indicated the rocky area, full of ridges and mesas, in which they stood; just outside the area which their scans could not penetrate. "And there is really only one grassy plain area on the planet."

"Well, then we know where they are!"

"That's the thing, though, Captain. It basically covers the entire planet, sir," Anderssen interjected quietly as he began to replay the captain's recorded transmission loop. "This planet has no apparent water supply except for a river or two; the land mass is 85% of the planet's area, and the majority of that land mass is grassy prairie."

"See, it wraps around the planet like so," and the young Russian sketched a rough area out. "They could literally be anywhere. But, at the edges of the plain and intersecting nearly in the middle, run rivers, so they vill eventually come to water."

Jim nodded. "Good work. What else can you show me that might be useful?"

"The debris seemed to be heading in this direction, toward the highest of the mountains; I presume that is where the…the wreckage of the ship landed, sir." Chekov swallowed briefly. "Is the most elevated and impenetrable part of the planet; no one could get up there vithout a shuttlecraft; cliffs are too high and steep for free-climbing."

"Then we shouldn't even bother. Spock?"

"I concur. There would be little productive value in making the attempt without rappels and proper cliff-scaling equipment; our only gain from such a risky venture would be if certain systems in the wreckage were still in working order, which is highly unlikely given the nature of a warp core explosion."

Jim was pretty proud of the fact that he didn't wince or even bat an eye at Spock's matter-of-fact discussion of what remained of his baby. "Is there any way we can pinpoint any other escape pods or shuttles, outside this communication loop, Anderssen?"

"I doubt it, sir. It took all the juice we have to jury-rig this; and there's no way I can get a good scan of anything outside our immediate area with a tricorder on a good day, much less through all the radiation bombarding the atmosphere right now. And the escape pods won't have landed for another half-hour yet, probably; they're programmed to test atmospheric conditions for toxicity to occupants, and the radiation in the upper atmosphere will slow them down considerably."

"Right. Then first we go find that chunk of debris to the west of us, figure out what it is and if we can salvage anything." Or anyone, he refrained from saying. "Then we're going to come back here and explore this chunk of unscannable land. There's something fishy about the whole setup and I have a bad feeling it hinges on this."

"It is certainly noteworthy, Captain, that there should exist one small land area which our sensors could not penetrate, on a supposedly uninhabited and uncharted planet."

"One that popped up out of nowhere, according to Chekov's navigation comps," Sulu added, glaring at a chartreuse grass frond as if it were solely responsible.

"Right. Anderssen, keep running that feed loop, see if you can get a signal to anyone who might still be listening, and keep a channel open for Lieutenant Uhura to contact us if she needs help. Chekov, keep an eye on those radiation levels and let me know if anything changes; also watch for life-sign indicators. It goes without saying, stay together and keep alert; we don't know who's behind this but if they took out the ship they won't have trouble taking out us too if we're careless." He looked around at his solemn crew – what was left of them – and then made a curt nod. "Move out."


	9. Middle Game: Fianchetto

**_III. Middle Game _**

* * *

><p><strong><em>Fianchetto: Italian, meaning "on the flank," and referring to the placement of a bishop in the position where it controls the longest diagonal<em>**

After four hours of straight hiking over rocky, dry terrain, with only one brief stop at a small mineral spring, they were all exhausted, and were still a good sixty-minute trudge from the site of the crash, whatever it had been. Radiation was distorting the long-range scans from a tricorder, and they would have to be a lot closer to be able to determine life-signs or not.

It was Spock, surprisingly, who finally called a halt to the trek, suggesting a brief period of rest. The other members of the party besides the captain only shot the First Officer a grateful look before collapsing into so many weary heaps of dusty uniforms.

"We don't have time," was Jim's clipped reply, delivered through a jaw clenched against the stark knowledge that no one else from his ship had managed to contact them or even let them know they were alive, other than Uhura's scheduled check-in to let him know she and her people were walking toward the nearest signs of water. At this point, this many hours after the crash, if they hadn't even detected any signs of incoming escape pods or shuttles, that pretty much meant he could give up hope.

"And if you do not _make _time, you may lose more crewmen, sir," the Vulcan replied in a respectfully undertone voice, but no less stern for its quietness. "This terrain is rough, the temperature quite warm for such exertion, and our water supply will remain scarce, to the best of our knowledge. In addition to this, you are yourself not close to top physical or emotional condition; your crew are faring little better." Spock indicated Chekov, who was slumped against Sulu's back in the shade of an overhang, eyes closed. McDonnell and Greco were talking quietly, but Anderssen looked like he was dead on his feet and close to crying; no wonder, if the chances that his girlfriend had survived were so slim. "Humans require time to assimilate loss and tragedy, as well as to deal with grief; not to mention the physical exertions."

Yet he bristled at a Vulcan reminding him of human emotional weakness, and rebelled at the idea of wasting any more time in rest. "Believe me, I understand your concerns, Mr. Spock," he said coolly, not about to start another argument in front of his exhausted ragtag team. "But if that debris is an escape pod, that means it crashed on the surface instead of remaining in space or safely landing itself. Delay could cost more lives than this disaster already has." He wiped his forehead, absently wondering why he felt so cold and shaky if it was really that hot. "Contrary to you Vulcans' belief, we humans are also capable of putting off our emotional collapses until more important matters have been dealt with."

It was a low blow, and he wanted to bite his tongue off the moment it slipped out – but he was exhausted, and shocky, and still couldn't quite wrap his human brain around the idea that his ship was just gone, along with her twelve hundred crew, and Old Spock and Kirk, and Bones…

Gods, _Bones_. No way would the man have left the ship safely without being sedated, not while there were young kids scrambling for escape pods and transporter pads.

Spock's jaw was set belligerently, in that particular Vulcanly stubborn way that only Jim ever picked up on. He felt his lips tighten; he so didn't have time or patience for this – but Spock wasn't taking no for an answer, "And contrary to your apparent belief, Captain, no human – no being – is invincible, or incapable of being affected by the knowledge that twelve hundred crewmen just died in nothing more heroic than a freak accident."

"_Don't_," he warned, teeth clenched.

"A warp engine explosion without sufficient trigger is unheard-of," Spock pressed, and couldn't he see that Jim was about to crack and that just was not a good idea in front of a crew who needed an anchor? "That such a thing should happen to the flagship of the Federation is not only highly suspicious but also a pointless way in which to end one's life and career – utter destruction, over lack of a security protocol."

Gravel slithered down his throat as he tried to swallow. "You think I don't know that?" he whispered.

"No, sir," Spock replied matter-of-factly. "I merely question your current lack of reaction to the idea of your entire crew complement being, quite literally, _liquefied _via the radiation from a warp core explosion."

A red haze threatened to shrink his vision into a tunnel; sure signs of a stress-induced migraine complete with waves of nausea. But…Spock, seriously? "My lack of…reaction? Are you serious?"

"Always," was the dry reply.

"Then what –"

"I question your true feelings regarding your crew, if you are willing to risk the health of the insignificant half-dozen you have left in pushing them beyond their physical and mental capabilities. Sir."

"You've overstepped your bounds, Commander," he said in a low tone of pure ice, fists clenched.

"Have I?" Spock's annoyingly smug head cocked to one side as if in tolerant question. "What portion of my statement do you have issue with – that you are risking your straggling crew's healths, or that you care so little for their murdered comrades that –"

"Keptin!"

"Captain! Sir!"

Jim had slugged him. Without intending to, without planning to, without even realizing he'd just decked his First Officer with every bit of strength at his disposal, until Spock staggered back three steps, raising one pale hand to his face to wipe away the blood from a split lip.

He just _hit _his First Officer. (Not to mention his friend, but there weren't really regulations against that.)

And Spock looked like that had been his exact intention…oh.

What had he _done_.

"I…" Nearly doubled over, hands clenched against the knots in his stomach, he struggled to pull in a complete breath, and realized that Spock had moved to block him from his horrified crew's looks of worried astonishment. Their eyes met for the briefest instant, and he saw apology and sympathy – no, _empathy_, because this was all too familiar – in the silent gaze. "I just hit you," he managed dully, and rubbed a dusty sleeve over his mouth.

"You did," Spock agreed simply, as if corroborating that the sky was blue. "I believe…the provocation was sufficient."

Words thrown gently back into his face, from an apology years past when he'd intentionally provoked this unique and amazing person into nearly choking him to death, to save a world and perhaps their sanity. Staring at his hands, he realized just in time he was so close to sobbing that he'd destroy his command image forever if he stuck around.

"Don't think I don't appreciate the irony," he gasped finally, sick at heart, "but I believe I'm emotionally compromised, Mr. Spock."

* * *

><p>He didn't wait for Spock's agreement, didn't need it to know it would be given reluctantly but truthfully, and instead bolted for the nearest stretch of cliff face around which he could slide to the ground, heedless of the shale digging into him, and bury his face in his arms across his upturned knees, trying desperately to not completely lose it.<p>

Sturdy bootsteps across the loose rocks alerted him to the fact that the person he was most ashamed to see right now had – bless his ridiculously patient heart, wherever it was in that wacked-out anatomical structure – come after him.

A body settled gingerly on the shale beside him. He ignored it.

"I suppose it would be superfluous to point out that we are all, to some extent at least, compromised by recent events."

He choked a laugh into his sleeve. "Just a little," he replied, words muffled.

"I regret –"

"Don't," he whispered, finally raising his head and meeting the disconsolate gaze. "Please don't regret anything. This is exactly why I wouldn't trade you for any other First Officer in the 'Fleet, Spock – you have to call me on things like this."

"I do believe that, as the Terran expression says, I owed you one?"

Okay, he was teetering on hysterics enough without Spock's deadpan not-humor-because-Vulcans-are-too-cool-for-humor pushing him over the precipice. "Yeah," he snorted, scraping a hand over his eyes. "One good turn deserving another and all that."

"Indeed." Warmth filtered into the Vulcan's dark eyes, and Jim automatically relaxed at the sight, feeling more in control for his outburst than he had in hours.

"Thanks, by the way," he said, bumping the thin figure with his shoulder briefly. "Probably postponed my real breakdown for a while at least."

"That was my intent," was the honest confession.

"How's your lip?"

"Your human strength is negligible."

"Yeah, I think I broke my hand. Bones is gonna…" Bones. He closed his eyes and lowered his head, willing the panic to settle back into the pit of his stomach rather than lurching up into his throat.

"Jim, do not assume the worst," Spock said quietly.

"You know the exact odds better than I do. Don't try to bolster my faith with fake hope, Spock. It isn't you and I don't need that from you right now." He looked up, pleading with the Vulcan to understand.

"What _do _you need, Captain?"

It was a simple question, uttered in a tone which indicated this amazing being would do anything within his power to see it happen. Glimpses like this, of a relationship which was beyond being friends and brothers-in-arms, were the moments for which he tolerated all the bickering and knocking antlers between them – because he had seen enough from the older version of Spock to know that such unwavering loyalty was not easily given and when received, was the greatest gift in the universe.

And nothing in the cosmos scared him more than the idea that Spock might decide soon to accept his own command posting, leaving Jim with a void in his life he knew he'd never be able to fill again.

"I need…I need you to keep me grounded, for now," he admitted, feeling more lost than he'd ever had before. "It's going to get worse before it gets better."

Spock nodded.

"And I need you to...take care of the crew. What's left of them," he added with a bitter, choked noise of despair.

"Emotionally compromised though you may be, you are still the better option to lead and assist. They are your crew, sir; not mine. Survivors will require your assurance and leadership, not mine."

"Mine got them killed," he whispered. "Q was right, Spock; I disregarded regulations and it ended up costing me the most important thing in the universe. I just wanted to see this planet, that's all – just walk around and enjoy my eyesight for a few minutes. And in those fifteen minutes something happened aboard my ship that ended up _destroying_her. Now look at me and tell me that's not my fault, that I shouldn't have been on board her instead of goofing off down here."

"It was not, and not necessarily," Spock returned, eyes flicking from his face out to the sky and back again. "Even had you been aboard, you would not have been able to abort the self-destruct nor find out why or how it had been activated."

"But at least I'd have gone up with my ship," he murmured, head drooping over his arms. "That's how it's supposed to be, Spock."

He would have sworn Spock snorted, except that Vulcans don't snort. Incredulous, he looked up.

"Q was correct in one particular; you do possess what is referred to as a minor hero complex. The only thing which is ever accomplished by such a supposedly heroic act, is to deprive the galaxy of a stellar leader and that leader's family and friends of a close relationship." Spock's eyes were drilling a hole into his aching head, and he could only blink, mesmerized like a rodent before a reptile…not a flattering analogy, now that he thought about it, but accurate. "Unnecessary heroics are simply that – unnecessary."

Jim heard clearly the unspoken _a lesson which you have yet to learn, obviously_.

"You are not expendable; it is more than fortuitous that you were not aboard the Enterprise at detonation, as your crew needs you, Captain, far more than the knowledge that you, as you say, went up with your ship."

"You're treading on thin ice there, Mr. Spock," he said warningly, posture stiffening.

Spock inclined his head in acknowledgment. From the first day they had left spacedock on their first five-year mission, they'd had an unspoken agreement to never again use dead parents as a weapon against each other, but there were times when the topic was brushed. It had been slightly over-used in the past, but then again their very beings, their futures, and their personalities had been directly altered by events surrounding the deaths, and so it was only natural.

Spock saw the warning in his eyes, but continued. "You believe I am denigrating George Kirk's sacrifices at the time of the _Kelvin_'s destruction."

"Pretty much," he retorted with a small twinge of heat, the first emotion he'd really felt other than an overwhelming grief in hours, now. "You seem to be especially good at that, by the way."

The Vulcan winced and shook his head. "There you are incorrect," he said. "One noticeable difference remains between your father's death and your declaration that you would prefer to have been on the _Enterprise _when it was destroyed."

"And that is?" And you'd better make it good.

Spock's gaze pinned him in place. "Your father had no choice."

The simple, bald fact slapped him across the face.

"In order for the crewmen of the _Kelvin_ to escape, the ship was required to crash into the _Narada_; manual control was then the only option available to Acting Captain George Kirk." The Vulcan looked at him pointedly. "Do you for a moment believe that if the auto-pilot had been in working order your father would have stayed aboard just so that, and I quote, _he could go up with his ship like a captain should_?"

Biting his lip until he could taste blood, he rocketed to his feet and strode to the edge of the rocky ledge, where he stared unseeing out at the rough terrain below. Footsteps crunched patiently behind him.

"You know there are times when I think I could hate you so much," he said, only half-joking. "And somehow I never can bring myself to. Why is that, do you think?"

"I would not know, sir," was the gentle reply. "Perhaps because sentient beings only grow by conflict; and those who lose much, feel much, have the capacity to become much through such conflict."

Surprised, his eyes slid across to the thin figure beside him, watching as the rough wind whipped the immaculate hair into disarray. "Don't tell me that's Vulcan philosophy," he asked, incredulous.

"Negative." Spock looked down off the rocky bluff, and then with a barely-perceptible shudder which Jim instantly noticed, stepped back to a safe distance away. "It was something my mother once told me. I do not know its origin."

Crap, the guy's mother fell off a cliff and here he's balancing on the edge of one. He shuffled backward, and didn't miss the tell-tale relaxing of the Vulcan's stiff shoulders. "Well, it's true," he sighed.

"Indeed."

"I just…" Something exploded in the upper atmosphere; they saw the miniature fireball pop into existence and then streak across the sky toward the far side of the planet. He wondered if it was a tiny warp bubble collapsing or if was just debris impacting the atmosphere and being pulled into the planet's gravity. "I can't believe it," he whispered, as his throat closed up. "She's gone, Spock. And everyone, or almost everyone, on board."

"I grieve with thee," the Vulcan replied softly. "However, Jim," and his voice took on a stronger tone of urgency, "you must now think of the future, and those few crewmen who are waiting back in the ridge for your direction. What is done, is done; it cannot be changed."

"You don't get it, do you?" he cried, waving a hand at the sky, where the particles which were the remains of his ship and crew were scattered, sparkling like deathly diamond-dust. "I can't just shake it off just like that!" He snapped his fingers to illustrate, before raking the hand through his hair in grief-fueled anger. "That was my whole freaking _world_, Spock! Can't you understand that?"

"Yes."

One word, but it hit him with all the subtlety of a brick to the head.

Of course he understood. There was a reason they had never talked about, why Spock hadn't called the _Enterprise_ for beam-out before crashing Ambassador Spock's ship and the red matter into the Narada – and it wasn't because he knew they would do it automatically. The guy had lost his whole _planet_ and six _billion_people.

Jim hid his face in both hands, struggling for composure. "I'm such an _idiot_," the muffled groan filtered out from under his hands.

"You are not," was the calm reassurance. "You are human, and you are grieving. Both are suitable reasons for not functioning at your peak leadership capacity."

"And neither of them is a good reason for using my First Officer and my friend as a punching bag – literally and verbally," he added, rubbing his eyes.

"I have said multiple times; the honor is to serve – in any capacity, in any need."

Jim couldn't help it, and in retrospect it was good that they were both in shock because it probably saved him from a nerve pinch – but he thought the cause was sufficient, and so he flung his sense of self-preservation to the wind and gave his shell-shocked Vulcan First a monster of a hug. A very manly, very _bro_ hug, in which he certainly did _not _sniffle a little into the dusty blue shoulder, and in which he pretended not to notice Spock's small squirm of discomfort before one hand came up to awkwardly pat his back.

Finally he stepped back, scrubbing a hand across his face. "Sorry," he said impishly. "You look like a cat who's just been petted when it didn't want to be and now its fur's all sticking out everywhere..."

Spock's eyebrows told him exactly what the guy thought of the simile and of the emotionally-charged physical contact; words weren't necessary.

He coughed. "Right. So, anyway – thanks."

The tension in the Vulcan's eyes melted, and Jim received a small not-smile.

He patted Spock's arm as he passed, stepping around him toward the path which led back to their waiting group of straggling but not daunted crew.

"Okay, my Vulcan friend. Let's do this."


	10. Middle Game:  Exchange

**_Exchange: simple capture of material by a player; specifically, can refer to the exchange of a rook for a minor piece_**

The better part of an hour later, they came over a rocky hill to see a plume of smoke dissipating gradually into the air of the valley below. A smallish crater lay before them, white-hot but now cooling debris lying wedged into the ground in its epicenter.

"No life-signs, Captain," Anderssen said quietly, tricorder whirring.

"Right." He took a deep breath and set off down the hillside, careful to not dislodge enough shale to cause an avalanche and break his neck from sheer stupidity. Slithering gravel and various grunts behind him told him that his decimated crew were doing the same, and within moments they were on level ground headed for the crash site.

His heart sank into his shoes when he got close enough; the glint of smooth metal and shattered transparent aluminum was enough to tell him it was a crashed escape pod and not mere shrapnel from the Enterprise's explosion.

He swallowed, slowing. And then the smell hit him with the force of a photon torpedo.

The acrid, scorching odor of electrical fire, sharp and biting – and the even more nauseating smell of charred flesh.

Behind him, he heard Greco's quiet gagging and Sulu's murmured Japanese invective.

"Spock," he managed, gesturing helplessly, and silently begged the Vulcan to understand.

The Vulcan nodded without hesitation. "Your tricorder, Lieutenant," Spock said quietly.

Anderssen surrendered the instrument without a word of protest, making no move to draw nearer the wreckage. Spock moved, silent and intent on his readings, toward the wreckage, circled it, and stood for a moment, peering at the still-smoking heap of shrapnel, most of which had been burned away on entry or shattered upon impact. He then crouched beside a large piece of metal, and after examining it from inches away then shrugged his sleeve over his hand. Thus protected from the heat by the flame-retardant material, he reached out and in one smooth tug yanked the portion of metal upward, flinging it a foot away from the rest.

Jim saw the blinking lights of singed but still-functional emergency electronics, and his heart sank. Up until now, he could just delude himself into considering it an accident; ten seconds before self-destruct all the escape pods launched themselves automatically. If it weren't for the smell of burning flesh, he could happily ignore all else and hold to the hope that it had just been an empty pod which had malfunctioned and crashed beyond recognition.

But that horrible blinking red light told him that the computerized functions of the pod were still in working order, built as they were for records to withstand even the most violent of crash landings.

Spock's eyes watched him, as he moved slowly forward to crouch beside his First. The Vulcan said nothing, waiting for his decision.

Without giving himself time to think about it, he shot out a hand and pressed the retrieval button.

_"Escape pod XXIC, U.S.S. Enterprise, ejected Stardate 2264.6_, the flat computerized voice intoned. He belatedly realized he wasn't breathing, and inhaled. _"Reason for ejection: internally-triggered shipwide self-destruct. Time of jettison: twenty seconds before destruct. Status of pod: navigational system malfunction, resulting in premature forced landing. Status of occupants: No survivors."_

From his peripheral, he saw Spock's lips tighten in what had to be the same sick anticipation which was threatening to deprive him of control over his stomach's contents.

The computer's drone continued. _"Occupants of pod: Ensign Petra Xanthos. Ensign C. J. Pha'ast-Movato. Lieutenant Lucia Marcella. Medical Assistant Tanya Bodine. Lieutenant-Commander Leonard McCoy."_

Gravel skittered under his feet as he lost his balance and sat, hard, staring at the steady red light which indicated the recording had finished processing, glowing evilly at the end of the gray tunnel which had suddenly become his field of vision. Weird, but now that he knew, he somehow wasn't feeling much of anything, just a sort of numb sickness that spread from the inside out, turning his heart and then everything else into a kind of icy stone, dead weight within him. He wasn't crying, wasn't screaming, wasn't really feeling much of anything, wasn't even hearing or seeing much, either, for that matter…just this nauseating _nothing _which encompassed him in a grey cloud, thick and smothering and thankfully blotting out all else for just a few blessed moments…

A sharp pain, a jarring slap to the face, threw his body out of its comfortable limbo, and he gasped, choking on shards of stench-permeated air…when had he stopped breathing?

Blinking, struggling helplessly for oxygen, he saw the worried face hovering in his immediate vision and finally recognized it. Sulu. Of course; Spock had never again, since that day over five years ago, raised a hand to him – refused categorically, even under medical circumstances. It was all he could do to get the Vulcan to spar with him, and even after five years he still hadn't convinced Spock to not 'go easy' on him.

"Captain. _Jim_. Seriously, man, snap out it." Filtering the words through the cotton-packed tunnel in his ear, he finally registered the conversation, and fought his way back to full awareness. Sulu's creased forehead slowly relaxed as comprehension dawned, and the young navigator sat back an inch or two out of Jim's personal space bubble. "That's it – you with us?"

He nodded, realizing he'd come close – dangerously close – to zoning out on what could be his last remaining crew. "Sorry," he rasped, struggling back to his feet. He pointedly ignored Spock's outstretched hand in doing so, and refused to feel remorse over the fact.

He drew up to his full height, breathing out a slow and measured breath to calm his nerves and try to banish the reek of charred flesh. At least now he knew.

He hoped, oh how he hoped, that the crash had been quick, or that her occupants had been unconscious from the force of entering the atmosphere too quickly. Bones was scared enough of being in space with nothing but a sheet of metal separating him from the void – if he'd been aware of what was coming…

He caught himself just in time before his stomach, roiling unpleasantly, decided to rebel entirely against his strict orders to remain where it was. Firmly forcing the wave of nausea back with a scrape of fist across his mouth, he looked up, and met the worried, equally grief-filled gazes of his straggling team.

"Sir, are you all right?" Chekov asked quietly.

"No, Ensign," he answered, hands clenched, because he'd never yet lied to his crew and he wasn't about to start now. "No, I am definitely not. But…I am going to make whoever is responsible for this pay, and pay dearly. Commander Spock."

"Yes, Captain." Spock's manner was all business, a reassuring presence at his elbow, one constant in a chaotic mess of variables which his brain was struggling to process.

"I want to know what happened here," he said, jaw clenched, tone stony-calm. "Because we both know there's no way the _Enterprise _self-destructed without internal sabotage. It simply isn't possible."

"But, sir!" McDonnell protested. "That would mean one of us blew up our own ship!"

"Improbable as it sounds, Mr. McDonnell, I cannot conceive another explanation for the bypassing of two voice-only authorizations and at least three dozen failsafes to prevent this exact eventuality," Spock replied with a calmness which slowly seeped into all of them as he spoke. "I cannot countenance any crewman deranged enough to even initiate the self-destruct, nor of one genius enough to be able to carry it out – even I would have struggled to counteract all the internal failsafes – and yet, there is no other way the self-destruct could have been triggered."

"Perhaps remotely?" Chekov suggested.

"It would still require knowledge of both the captain's and my security codes, and the ability to override the voice or retinal recognition requirements."

"Is there any possibility it was just – well, just a freak accident?" Anderssen asked.

"None," Spock responded promptly. "No such accident has ever been recorded in star-travel history, and certainly never with this class starship; much less with a newly refurbished flagship. The failsafes are, as I said, too numerous and too complicated to be overridden by anyone other than…" he trailed off for a moment, just a moment, but it was enough to raise the hackles on Jim's neck.

He knew that look. Spock had an idea. A horrible, wonderful, awful idea – and one which he wouldn't share with the class until he found evidence to back it up.

"Anyone other than a considerable technological programming genius with an ability which exceeds even my own, coupled with years of experience aboard this ship and under this command team," the Vulcan finished after only that fractional pause.

"I can't believe that of anyone in my crew," Jim protested faintly. "Such a computer rating would have shown up in records, and I know my crew's records. I would have remembered that, given that you and I, Scotty and Chekov, are the only people on board with an A-7 rating."

"Nevertheless, it is the only solution possible, based upon the facts as we know it. We have no way of verifying its accuracy until we discover the identity of the being behind the self-destruct trigger."

"And if we find out who it is, I can guarantee you won't be short of volunteers to see he doesn't live to see court martial, Captain," Greco interjected, his honest face flushed with heat and anger.

Jim shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose to stave off the headache. His skin crackled. Awesome, alien sunburn. It was the least of his worries. "We can't dwell on that now," he said quietly, hand dropping back to his side. "We're going back to that unscannable area, and just hope and pray there's something there which will help us locate the survivors, or at least help us pinpoint where Lieutenant Uhura's party is on the surface. At the least, we will set up a base camp and make plans for immediate survival tactics."

Murmurs of agreement sounded from the semi-circle, and he nodded, swallowing forcibly on the lump in his throat brought on by another look at the remains of the crashed escape pod. "Anderssen, tune your tricorder to pick up signs of vegetation and see how close we are to one of those rivers; what field packs you all had won't last us more than another day and we'll need water at the least. Keep checking in with Lieutenant Uhura and see if you can get a better idea of where we all are topographically. Greco, McDonnell, I want you to take over the transmitter, keep replaying my recorded comm-loop and see if we can eventually make contact with someone. The escape pods, if they were able to jettison before the explosion, will be coming to rest on the planet in the next six hours. If Scotty's out there, I know he'll somehow be able to rig an escape pod or something into a transmitter as well as a receiver." The three men nodded. "Sulu, work with Chekov and his tricorder, using your botanical knowledge. We're going to need food."

"Aye, sir."

"Da, keptin. We will confer with Lieutenant Anderssen."

He nodded. "Right, then." After casting one more glance at the smoking ruin ten feet away, he then turned his gaze resolutely back toward the jagged hills beyond. "Let's move out."

His men moved into formation, tactfully leaving him behind for a moment with Spock. The Vulcan was standing silently at the side of the obliterated pod, head bowed.

Biting his lip, Jim risked one more look at the wreckage, and saw a shred of charred blue cloth caught on the edge of a nearly-melted shard of metal. He sucked in a wet breath of foul air, blinking to clear his vision.

"Captain, I…I am sorry," he heard sound gently in the stillness, and the sheer stilted humanity of the expression as opposed to the usual Vulcan phrase touched him more than an embrace would have.

"You have an idea of who could be behind this, Spock, I know you do," he responded in a low tone, brittle with grief and pain. "You had better decide here real quick to tell me your suspicions."

"I give you my word, if I had more than a…I believe you would say, a _bad feeling _about the matter, I would. As it stands, I would prefer to investigate the possibility further before asking you to again relive this ordeal in excruciating detail."

Ah. He hadn't thought of it like that. He gave the Vulcan a thin smile. "Granted. You have until tonight, Spock, and then I want your hunch. I have more confidence in your guesses than in anyone else's facts." Déjà vu flickered through him like a chill, and then vanished. He shook his head to rid himself of the sensation. "I'm flying blind here, Spock, and I need something to work with."

"Agreed. I simply need a short period of time in which to review the facts and correlate missing details."

"I'll see what I can do to get you space to meditate when we make camp; you have to be needing it by now. Spock, do you…what should we do, about them?" His voice cracked on the last word as he gestured at the smoking remains of the escape pod, but not until then; he was quite proud of the effort it had taken.

"We will return when we are stronger in number, and in more control of our surroundings," was the calm reply, delivered with infinite gentleness. "We can do nothing for them without resources, and it would be the wishes of the crew that you make the living your priority rather than the deceased."

He nodded sadly. "Of course you're right as always, Mr. Spock. Let's catch up with the others."

At the top of the rise, he looked back at the wreckage, and wished for just a few seconds that he'd at least apologized about the last Sickbay incident, even if he didn't think he was really to blame. Though now, he'd be only too glad to be back in that cubicle, being yelled at by an irate Chief Medical Officer.

Now, never again. He'd lost his ship and his best friend, in addition to his most important mentor and twelve hundred other crewmen – all in the space of a few hours. Was this what Q had meant, when the deity had said he'd lose everything he held dear, at an incalculably high price?

Did that mean he'd failed his tests before he even realized he was taking them?

Clenching his jaw, he turned from the smoking wreckage, and moved with resolution to the top of the hill. Spock was waiting patiently for him just over the rise, and studiously refrained from commenting on the solitary tear that scorched its way down his sunburned face.


	11. Middle Game:  King Hunt

**_King Hunt: a prolonged attack on the opponent's King, usually dislodging it from a shielded position via a series of checks and sacrifices_**

_Captain's Log, Stardate_ _2264.9_

_We have been unable to contact any other survivors of the…destruction of the Federation starship U.S.S. Enterprise. To my knowledge, we seven and Lieutenant Uhura's three-man party are the only ten survivors out of over twelve hundred people. Let the record show that the cause of the self-destruct trigger, and the method of overriding the safety protocols in place to prevent this eventuality, are both entirely unknown, and while Commander Spock has a few conjectures regarding the level of intelligence and ability of the perpetrator we have no set conclusions or even suspicions as to the guilty parties. Let the record show that my Second, Lieutenant-Commander Montgomery Scott, was neither incompetent nor derelict in his duties, now or ever; nor was my Fourth, Lieutenant Nyota Uhura, to blame for surviving the explosion when her department personnel did not. Each of my surviving crew acted to the best of their abilities to save themselves, as protocol dictates in the event of a General Order Thirteen, and were not even on the scene when the self-destruct was triggered._

_My highest commendations to Lieutenant-Commander Scott and Lieutenant Keenser, for spending their time in attempting to override the self-destruct, at the cost of being able to evacuate the ship. They gave their lives in the above-and-beyond performance of their duty._

_My highest commendations to Lieutenant Jeffery Kyle, who remained at his post in the Transporter Room until the Enterprise's destruction. He was responsible for saving at least three members of my crew._

_Known casualties: Ensign Petra Xanthos. Ensign C. J. Pha'ast-Movato. Lieutenant Lucia Marcella. Medical Assistant Tanya Bodine. Lieutenant-Commander and Chief Medical Of-Officer…Leonard McCoy. All others presumed casualties save for my landing party and Lieutenant Uhura, Ensign Vro-Hathwa, and Lieutenant Kevin Riley. Let the record show that my people were not to blame, and that the cause of the self-destruct being triggered remains unknown._

_Lieutenant Uhura's last check-in indicated that her party has found shelter in some vegetation along one of the planet's rivers. I have instructed her to remain there while we attempt to extrapolate her position and reach their party. Mr. Spock is currently engaged in overseeing the set-up of a temporary camp, as well as trying to re-configure what technology we have besides the tricorders, which could possibly function as a subspace distress beacon. While I have the highest confidence in my First Officer's abilities both to command and to perform minor scientific wonders, there stands little chance of miraculously conjuring equipment we need out of the materials at hand. It could very well be several weeks before Starfleet Command receives our emergency jettison packet (and that's assuming it did actually get jettisoned before the countdown), and sends aid to the survivors._

_In the meantime, we can do nothing but carry on. Much as I do not want to._

Jim flicked the tricorder's record button off before he embarrassed himself further in an official log. He'd thought that maybe four hours would let him get used to the idea of his ship going up in flames and his entire crew (practically) with it – but it was still as sickening a feeling as it had been earlier. He wanted nothing more than to fall apart quietly where no one could see – but a captain wasn't given that privilege of the common man. He had to soldier on, to lead a battle and try to end a war, and he had to stand strong when his crew felt like deserting or surrendering.

He'd been glad to see Anderssen have his minor meltdown earlier over the probable fact of his girlfriend's death. Now that the initial terror was dealt with he would be more stable now, and they needed his scientific mind. Spock had freaked out a little bit, bless his heart, but had hammered the final nail into the coffin of his capability of being a captain in his own right in demonstrating his ability to diffuse emotional tension with the appropriate amount of respect. Jim's only reservation against the promotion would be Spock's struggle to react properly and kindly to excessive human emotion; not all crews loved Vulcanic stoicism, or would tolerate it in a commanding officer.

But Spock had been, in a word, perfect, with his subordinate, not condoning nor compromising Vulcan principle with something so out of character as physical comfort – but had said the right things and permitted the lieutenant space and time rather than harshly demanding he continue work on his projects. It had been one of Spock's very few flaws during the early days of their first mission, and the Vulcan had grown much in the intermediary years.

Jim had no further objections, professional or otherwise, to Spock's moving on to his own captaincy. He was both proud of that fact, and deathly scared of its implications.

"Captain, sir?" inquired McDonnell, returning from reconnaissance.

"Yes, Mr. McDonnell," he replied, all professionalism and bland calmness. It wouldn't do to fall apart in front of any of them now, because they were all on the verge of a breakdown themselves. "Report."

"Mr. Spock reports the camp secure, sir, though there has been little progress in the construction of a distress beacon. We are, for the moment, stable."

Jim nodded absently, trying to pull his head back into the game.

"Sir, request permission to explore the uncharted and unscannable area?"

"Denied, temporarily," he answered, mitigating the curtness with a smile and a squeeze to the Security man's shoulder. "Let me confer with Commander Spock regarding securing this site and then we'll probably all go together. With a lack of communicators I don't really want us separating, even if the planet seems harmless. Seen too many horror holovids, you know?"

The ensign smiled a little and nodded in approval. "Safety in numbers, sir."

"Exactly. Get with Sulu, McDonnell, and see how the food situation's coming?"

"Aye, sir." The young man sent a spray of gravel flying as he sped off toward the navigator, who was poring over a portable toxin detection kit held over a disgustingly slimy-looking lichen. Chekov looked torn between disgust and scientific curiosity, and he was glad to see it; keeping them busy was going to be paramount for the next few days – weeks, or months, actually, since it no doubt would come to that – in order to keep their minds and spirits off the holocaust which had just destroyed the majority of their lives.

Spock looked up at his approach, and he noted the tension in the Vulcan's thin figure. "Once we're settled here I'll take over the grunt work," he said in an undertone, careful to keep his voice below a level which could be overheard by their subordinates.

"Unnecessary."

"Don't give me that. In your own terminology, Commander, you require meditation, and I require you to be at top performance in your duties. Therefore, I will take over the grunt work for such time as you deem sufficient. Understood?"

"Clearly," was the dry reply, though not without gratitude. "We are, I believe, at an impasse. Without additional equipment, I will not be able to produce anything of use to our predicament. Even I cannot make something out of nothing."

"Right, because only Scotty can change the laws of physics," he teased, and though he felt a stinging in his eyes at the thought of their brilliant CE, it was nice to remember him fondly. "I had forgotten, Mr. Spock. Do forgive me."

Spock looked up at him, the motion looking suspiciously like an eyeroll from his vantage point. "I am a scientist, sir; not a miracle worker." Eyes suddenly widening as the Vulcan realized how he had unconsciously phrased the sentence, Spock offered him an apologetic look.

He smiled, and laid a hand on the tense blue shoulder. "That's only the tiniest portion of your job description, Mr. Spock. I think the 'Fleet regards the majority of it as 'Jim Kirk's babysitter'."

"Which by definition would entitle me to hazard pay."

Anderssen, walking by with a load of dismantled electronics carefully wrapped in his black undershirt, suddenly cackled. That earned him a death-by-eyebrow from Spock and a shameless smirk from his captain; Jim was just glad to see the guy had it together at least visibly, since that was more than he could say he felt that he had.

"Yeah, I'll send the memo to Starfleet Command tomorrow; remind me, why don't you," he retorted dryly.

"Because you are so timely regarding the completion of paperwork."

"Hel-_lo_, that's what I have you for? I didn't ask you to be First Officer just to get my butt kicked every week in zero-G wrestling."

"An uncontracted, but not entirely unpleasant, benefit from the arrangement."

They were getting weird looks from the rest of the landing party, which was good; part of the reason he and Spock were regarded as The Command Team in the 'Fleet was their ability to play off each other to diffuse tension and ease stress in their crew. If that meant Spock poking at his recklessness or human illogic, or him teasing the Vulcan until the guy snapped in one form or the other – either way, it was just a coping mechanism, and while the present humor was a little pathetic it got the job done.

Sulu offered them a tentative smile as he approached, a staccato-chattering Chekov in tow. "Good news and bad news, Captain," he reported, saluting despite the obvious informality of their situation.

Jim knew it was his own gesture of respect and we're-all-coping-along-with-you-sir, and loved him for it. "Well let's have them, Mr. Sulu."

"Zhe good news is that nearly all of the species of flora on this planet are non-harmful for human – or Wulcan – consumption," the young navigator chirped, grinning at his tricorder. "Vill certainly be able to sustain us for indefinite period of time."

"…And the bad news?"

Sulu huffed in amusement, and jerked a thumb toward the nearest glop of ooze. "Most of it's going to taste like a hybrid of wet clay and rancid milk," he answered wryly, grimacing. "It's pretty disgusting stuff, but it's digestible by carbon-based life-forms. Won't harm your digestive system, sir, and qualifies as a vegetarian preference."

Spock's eyes flickered in somewhat surprised acknowledgement, and Jim tried not to sigh. His First still, even after so long, found it hard to accept that the crew was just as loyal and caring toward him as they were toward the captain – more so, in some cases. He couldn't find it in his heart to be jealous of that, because Spock deserved it.

That was what made the idea of losing his First to a career promotion so sickening; he knew half the crew might want to go with him. If Spock ever decided to mutiny, Jim would never stand a chance of keeping his ship intact. That knowledge both awed him and terrified him –

It hit him suddenly that there wasn't a ship, or a crew, anymore, and his eyes burned. He turned away from the group, rubbing a hand over his sunburnt forehead and nose, and inhaled slowly, trying to follow the few failed meditation lessons Spock had once been idiot enough to attempt teaching him. Quiet inhalation, picturing the tension and pain and anger flowing out of the gaping wound left by the explosion of his ship…outward into the dissipation of his extremities…out into the air, to vanish like vapor.

To heck with it, it hadn't worked then and wasn't working now.

"Have we set up camp to your satisfaction, Mr. Spock?" he snapped suddenly, interrupting Anderssen and Chekov's animated discussion of possibly utilizing various minerals found in the soil as crude power conduits.

Spock's delicate eyebrow tilted just a fraction, but he said nothing besides a quiet, "Aye, Captain."

"Then let's get this uncharted area explored while we still have daylight hours," he ordered, slinging a pack over his shoulder. Water purification tablets, basic first aid supplies, and emergency ration bars were basically all the supplies they had in the world, and probably would have for the next few months until they could be rescued. It would have to do. "About how long do we have left, Mr. Chekov?"

"Approximately three-point-five hours, sir. Daylight falls on zhis planet early in its solar cycle."

"Three-point-six-one, to be precise. And you are aware that early is a relative term, Ensign, dependent upon which point of observance you base –"

"Spock," he muttered, elbowing the Vulcan as he passed. "Easy on the kid."

"I heard that, and I am not kid!" The young Russian expostulated indignantly from behind them.

"Yeah, you are."

"I am not kid! I am tventy-three years old!"

"So's my baby brother, who's hasn't even taken the Kobayashi Maru yet," Anderssen snorted.

"Tell him not to bother," Jim called, booting a rock away from the trail before them. "I've been reliably informed that its creator is a royal pain in the –" he yelped as Spock turned, eyebrows clenched, and held up both hands in the universal don't-kill-me gesture, "Kidding, I'm just kidding! No nerve pinching the captain!"

"Three words," Sulu muttered as they picked their way over the craggy shale behind them.

Chekov perked up and glanced at him while snapping the lid shut on the tricorder to protect it from the dust they were kicking up. "Da?"

"Mmhm. Old. Married. Couple."

"_Da_," Anderssen echoed, amid a snort of muffled snickers from the Security detail bringing up the rear.

* * *

><p>"…A transporter? In the middle of freakin' No Man's Land?" Greco voiced the sentiment they were all feeling, staring at the object within the shielded area.<p>

"Operational, Spock?" Jim asked, staying a safe distance from the object per McDonnell's stressed injunctions and Spock's non-verbal backup glare.

"It appears to be so, Captain, though it is of a manufacturing origin completely alien to me," his CSO replied, inspecting the platform and then moving to its control board. "Mr. Greco?"

"Never seen the like, sir, and I'll wager I've seen about every type of UFP transporter there is; it's standard procedure for Security, at least according to Mr. Scott's brand of it. Ever since that noob from the Academy last year mixed up the dispersal pattern on that Klingon transporter we nicked from Outpost Fourteen, he's made all of us memorize the different makes and enough information to complete a safe transport even without a pad. Wouldn't like to try it m'self, though," he muttered, inspecting the controls.

"Mr. Chekov?"

"No idea, Mr. Spock." Wide blue eyes scanned every inch of the controls excitedly, fingers hovering over textless buttons and panels with the itch of curiosity. "Perhaps is voice-activated?"

"Negative, unless it is isomorphically controlled. But this series of switches most resembles a power coupling on some extremely obscure United Federation of Planets experimental models from the last century…" The Vulcan carefully flipped a series of levers.

Greco and McDonnell leaped into action, yanking Spock and the young Russian to a safe distance away as the machine suddenly whirred into life, lights flashing on simultaneously and the padd power circuits revving into life.

Nothing else happened.

"Overreaction much, guys?" Jim asked, laughing, and slung an arm proudly around each of them while they stood, sheepish, as Spock calmly returned to the transporter console.

"It does appear to be in working order, Captain," the Vulcan declared after a few moments of fiddling with various switches and (thankfully) encountering no booby-traps. "While the technology is partly unfamiliar, partly reminiscent of our own, the entire apparatus does appear to, in theory at least, be fully functional."

"Am I the only one who thinks it's really weird that a transporter randomly exists on a planet that's not supposed to exist, and that doesn't have any sort of even sentient – much less intelligent – life forms on it?"

"Negative," Greco said bluntly. "It screams booby-trap to me, sir."

"Especially as a set of coordinates appear to be pre-programmed and locked into the transport beam," Spock affirmed. "The lock encryption is entirely unfamiliar to me; I doubt it can be disengaged and re-programmed."

"Where are the coordinates?"

"Apparently the primary raised plateau we saw upon our initial aerial reconnaissance, sir. It is one of several inexplicably and apparently haphazard elevated areas in the unique topography of this planet."

"We have any idea what's up there?"

"Negative." Spock shook his head, fingers still flying over the consoles without needing to look at what he was doing. "When scans revealed treacherous landing conditions and no life of any sort, plant or intelligent animal, was scanned, I declined to permit an exploratory landing party, Captain."

"And so you should," he said reassuringly. "But now I wonder what, exactly, is up there."

"I have a really, really bad feeling about all this," Sulu muttered. "I flew the shuttle myself over the plateau, Captain, and there's no way there could be sentient life there. It's all rocky ground, ravines and crevasses. No one could even explore there without some hefty safety equipment."

"So why, then, is the transporter locked onto those coordinates?" Anderssen mused, walking around the pad to the other side and crouching to run tricorder scans of the base. "It appears to function along the same principles as any other transporter. Mr. Spock?"

"I concur, Lieutenant. However, I do not see a way to disengage the lock on the coordinates."

"Supposing we could unlock it," Jim asked, turning to his First, "do you think we could lock onto Lieutenant Uhura and her party and beam them back?"

"In theory, since the lieutenant does have a communicator. However, I should be reluctant to risk the transport with alien equipment. Without a modern stabilization matrix and a complete pattern lock on the two parties not holding the communicator, transport would not be entirely without risk. However, Mr. Chekov would be more knowledgeable regarding the feasibility of manual computation than I; he is unmatched in that particular field."

The young man blushed a fiery red at the words, which coming from Spock amounted to the Vulcan holding a bouquet of flowers and wearing a t-shirt that said **I 3 Moscow**. Relations between the two had been a little strained initially during the first five-year mission. Chekov had blamed himself for months, for not being able to lock onto Amanda Grayson when Vulcan imploded, and Jim had finally, as Captain and friend, stepped in and explained to Spock that humans blame themselves for things whether they were their fault or not, and that they didn't know they were forgiven until they were told. Spock had trusted his judgment of character, and had under his suggestion sought out the young man toward the end of their first year, informing him accordingly that it was futile to blame himself and that Spock would never have thought of doing so.

Now, Chekov worshipped the ground Spock walked on, and Spock had found himself a little protégé It was different, but effective, and the captain and first officer's wasn't the only relationship that had been born, strengthened, and tried by fire through initial mutual conflict. Jim thought it was adorable, and it did his heart good to see Spock running his Science labs with an iron fist and a cherubic Russian shadow. Chekov was going to be a supernova of a Chief Science or Tactical Officer someday; the kid was almost lethally brilliant, and had been personally trained by the best scientist and First Officer in the Fleet for the last half-decade.

"I vould not like to risk it unless absolutely necessary, Keptin," Chekov was saying, nervously inspecting the controls. "To bypass computer control is such complicated calculation, there is much room for error..." He flicked a glance at Spock, who made a minute shrugging gesture with one shoulder. "I vould not risk it unless the Lieutenant and her party are in immediate danger and need emergency beam-out," he then said decisively.

Jim nodded, trusting their judgment. "Very well then, gentlemen. Mr. Spock, speculation?"

Only a nanosecond of hesitation, but it was enough to alert him before the quiet "Negative, at this time," was spoken.

He shot his Exec a look that clearly said they would continue this later, and turned back to the others. Darkness had begun to settle over the unfamiliar planet, and the terrain would become treacherous in short order as they had only the lantern applications in the tricorders to light their way. "Right, we need to get back and set up camp. There isn't anything else we can do here until we have daylight." A chorus of agreements. "Stay in L formation, and keep the person in front of you within eyesight. If you see something which needs investigating, alert Mr. Spock, but let's try to move quickly. With our luck, even if our tricorders say there's nothing here that can eat us I wouldn't be surprised at this point."

A smattering of ever-so-slightly nervous laughter punctuated his statement, and he smiled, letting Greco move toward the front as the Security man gave him a pointed look.

Sulu took point while Spock moved behind to confer briefly with Anderssen, and Jim tried to be glad that he still had these few, these faithful few, instead of dwelling on the fact that his entire crew had been decimated in the space of just a few short hours.

They trekked back to their makeshift campsite in relative silence, each lost in his own thoughts as the realization of their true situation set in with the fall of night. By the time Anderssen and Chekov had got a fire going, using the emergency flint in the landing party's sole survival kit so as to save power in their one phaser (Jim was going to change that policy as soon as he got back to civilization, because one phaser wasn't enough for emergencies), the sun had set completely, leaving only an orange glow to their east and star-studden darkness above them.

Sulu and Chekov disappeared a few minutes after the ration bars had been doled out, and he let them; everyone had to assimilate the losses of today in their own ways, and he wasn't going to insult what crew he had left by reminding them of safety protocols which they already knew. Greco and McDonnell took first watch, and after checking in with his captain Anderssen rolled himself up in a inflatable thermal blanket and fell silent, Jim hoped asleep rather than thinking about his most-likely dead girlfriend.

He'd asked Spock to check in with Uhura, and had received a slightly grateful, if knowing, look in return, about an hour ago, and had watched as his First built a tiny fire, more glowing embers than anything else, several meters from the main campsite. Probably trying to reproduce the fire-pot which was a Vulcan meditative aid, he guessed, and he made sure to stay a safe distance from what he knew was a sort of telepathic bubble, based on previous experimentation in similar situations. His mental turmoil would only harm and distract, and he kept away until he saw signs of awareness begin to resurface in the calm face.

Sitting down Indian-style on the other side of the glowing coals, he waited, hands loose on his knees, for Spock to surface. And, about fifteen minutes later, he did.

"How is it?" he asked, and knew Spock would recognize the captain and not the friend, inquiring as to the mental state of his XO.

"Manageable," was the quiet reply. "I…am grateful for the time of solitude."

"Least I can do, now that I know what it does to you," he answered lightly, playing with a sparkly pebble, laced with flecks of quartz. "Think you'll hold up all right until we're stabilized here?"

"I have every confidence. The…backlash, would be your most similar Standard term, is not severe with a non-telepathic majority."

He nodded, processing this, and gave his First a few more minutes to collect his thoughts. Then, leaning forward into the glowing warmth of the embers, he regarded the Vulcan with a flinty gaze. "And are you prepared to tell me your 'suspicions' now, Mr. Spock?"

"I have no proof, Captain –"

"Spock I don't need proof!" he exclaimed, slamming a fist into his knees. "Someone just _blew up_ my freaking _ship_, and if you think you know who it was then _tell me _who's_ responsible_, Commander!"

"I do not believe a human agency was responsible."

Starting, he blinked at the impassive face across from him. "What?"

"No crewman would have had the capability to override the safety protocols and failsafes to initialize an internally-triggered self-destruct sequence. Even you or I, who possess the computer capability and the verbal override capability, would not have been able to bypass every safety measure in place to do so without several hours of painstaking decryption. No on aboard would have that knowledge in addition to the retinal and voice imprint necessary to finalize the order." Spock's eyes were troubled. "None of your crew were responsible, Captain."

He hopelessly dropped his head into his hands, pressing icy fingers against his eyebrows in an effort to ward off the mother-of-all-migraines which was threatening to drive a stake through his brain. "Who, then?"

"As I said, no human agency could possibly have been responsible. Therefore, when you eliminate that segment of those in the vicinity at the time –"

He froze, ice flooding through him despite the warmth of the fire. "Oh God."

"Negative, at least not in the Divine Standard of Morality sense." Spock looked away for a moment, eyes darting to the sky as a shooting star – or maybe a bit of the hull, he reflected bitterly – streaked across the midnight expanse. Then he turned back, resigned. "But a pseudo-deity, at the least. The only logical conclusion to draw, Captain, is that Q destroyed the _Enterprise_. There is, I am afraid, no other theory which explains all the facts."

He pulled his knees up and hugged them, staring into the fire. "I thought I passed his tests, Spock. Why did he blind me and then remove the blindness, if I didn't pass them?"

"I do not know," was the gentle reply. "Nevertheless the fact exists that he is the only being who could have single-handedly triggered an internal self-destruct, other th…he is the only possible culprit."

He'd caught the slip, though, and lifted his head, a sick feeling clawing its way up his throat like the protein bar had come alive and was Not Happy about its location. "Other than me," he finished Spock's thought, lips twisting bitterly. "You can say it, Mr. Spock, because it's for sure going to be the first thing Starfleet Command will say. Can you imagine the inquest over this?"

"I have no desire to."

"Me neither," he choked into his knees. "And you know what the worst of it is, Spock?"

"Negative." Spock's voice was barely a whisper, and the unspoken sympathy there nearly sent him over the edge into tears.

He reeled back from it, firmly refusing. "The worst thing is that even if I didn't set the destruct and give the codes – I still killed them all, regardless," he said hollowly, staring into the dying flames. "Q warned me, you heard him – everything I love, everything I am, destroyed if I didn't change."

"You have not yet had opportunity to show that you have," Spock offered quietly. "Therefore that criteria is not met. Whatever Q's reasoning, your actions were not responsible. If he wished to destroy the Enterprise, then he would do so despite or in spite of you."

"Keep telling yourself that, Spock," he responded with bitterness, standing to his feet. "Because I sure can't believe it. Come on, we need to get Sulu and Chekov back here before they freeze to death, and you're taking the extra thermal blanket, by the way."

Proof of Spock's preoccupation, and his disturbed state of mind, were evident in that he did not speak until they had all gathered back around the fire.

Anderssen was sitting up, blinking sleepily and hair sticking out in all directions, so Jim didn't feel bad about talking if it wouldn't keep him awake. Greco and McDonnell were still out on patrol, but were within shouting distance if they were needed. He owed them a massive commendation if he ever saw civilization and 'Fleet service again.

"Wish we had s'mores," Sulu said wistfully, poking the flames idly with a stick from one of the few scraggly trees they'd cut down for fuel.

"Some more what?"

Tragedy forgotten for the moment in the fact of utter shock, Jim stared at his first officer. "Are you seriously telling me you've never had a s'more before?"

Spock's expression clearly said _you are a moron, and a repetitively obvious one_. "Negative."

"Geez, we'll have to introduce you to them when we get back to civilization," the helmsman declared, grinning. "Is it true that Vulcans can't fully metabolize chocolate, like humans don't metabolize alcohol?"

"I fail to see how that is applicable, nor how it is any business of yours, Mr. Sulu."

Jim hid his grin in his blanket. Vulcans – half-Vulcans at least – could indeed get drunk from chocolate, though they could also become intoxicated from liquor if it were strong enough (basically, something strong enough to make a Klingon comatose). He'd found that out the interesting way when he'd been staying on New Vulcan for a weekend of shore leave.

His older self evidently knew precisely what a Vulcan's tolerance levels were better than said Vulcans themselves. They'd had two slightly tipsy Spocks on their hands for the better part of a night, and it was so totally worth the silent treatment for three days afterwards. That was one thing on which he and Old Kirk _totally _agreed.

"A s'more is made of chocolate bar, graham cracker, and marshmallow, Mister Spock," Chekov had taken pity on his mentor and explained. "They are traditional camping food, especially vhen campfires are to be had. And –"

"If you say marshmallows were invented in Russia I'm gonna deck you, I swear," Sulu warned him, only half joking.

"Pah, everyone knows that is not true," Chekov scoffed, nose upturned.

Surprised, Sulu huddled down into the blanket with a sigh of relief.

"It is graham crackers zhat were. Also – aaaghhhrrrrft." The rest of the sentence was smothered in the blanket the helmsman threw over his head and stuffed in his mouth. A friendly wrestling match ensued, and other than an injunction to take it well away from the fire Jim stayed out of it.

Spock watched in mild fascination.

"Working off stress," he explained. "And a lot safer than decking a fellow officer because it built up too much." A rueful smile accompanied the words, and he saw the answering glint in Spock's eyes.

Anderssen had given up trying to follow either the conversation or the half-Russian, half-Japanese mudslinging which was going on behind him, and plopped over again, snoring.

Jim smiled into the fire. "S'mores can be made without chocolate, by the way, if you're interested."

"I have no desire to inflict complex carbohydrate chains upon my digestive system, when the items have less nutritional value than the packaging in which they are wrapped."

"On second thought I'll give you double chocolate when we make them; maybe it will mellow you out a little," he teased, bumping the Vulcan gently with his shoulder.

"Is that a legitimate side effect, given their name?"

He stared for a minute before realizing Spock was serious. "Uh…no, no, it's not. And it's spelled m-a-l-l-o-w, not m-e-l-l-o-w. Wasn't punning with you. Ah…and they don't grow in marshes, either."

"Marshmallow." Looked like the guy was sounding it out, no doubt deciding its illogical etymology factor on a scale of mildly-intriguing to humans-as-a-race-are-brainless.

"Mmhm. Look, I'll take first watch. Don't argue with your captain, mister," he added, shaking a finger in the Vulcan's amused face. "I need you at your brilliant best in the morning. Besides," he looked down at his hands. "I'm not sure I can sleep tonight."

"Do you require company?" Spock asked quietly.

He flicked a smile, brief but genuine, at his friend, and patted the dust-coated blue sleeve. "No, but thanks. Hey could you make sure Greco and McDonnell only stay out there for another hour and then turn in too, before you go?"

"Affirmative," Spock replied as he rose to his feet, silent as a cat. "Good night, Jim."

"Good night, Spock." He blinked, as the shadows wavered in the fire's glow, and shook his head before making himself comfortable with a tricorder tuned and his ears open for signs of danger.

Why did he suddenly have _Row, Row, Row Your Boat_ going through his head?


	12. Middle Game:  Sharp

**_Sharp: A move which attempts to grab the initiative, involving both commitment and bridge-burning_**

Dawn broke warm and arid the next morning. He hadn't slept at all, only lay there watching the winking stars above them and with every flicker of bright light had imagined another piece of debris from the Enterprise hitting the atmosphere. He looked around him at his ragtag crew, what was left of them, as they gradually woke up and began moving about, smiles in place and business-like efficiency characterizing their movements.

He'd never been more proud of them.

He and Spock conferred over breakfast (which consisted of half a lukewarm energy drink and half a protein bar – veggie medley flavored, because he was sharing with Spock, and he would be glad to never taste that flavor again) and decided to split up in an effort to discover more about their locale.

"We need a water source, and a suitable place for semi-permanent shelter," he'd agreed, when Spock mentioned the growing need for fresh water, both for health and hygiene purposes. "Much as I'd like to think Starfleet's efficiency would be good enough to rescue us once they realize we never showed up at Delta, I know the system too well to think it'll ever be that easy. Murphy's Law loves me."

True to form, Spock ignored the reference in favor of more pressing matters. "I would suggest attempting to locate Lieutenant Uhura and her landing party, as at last check-in they had reached a suitable place for camp along one of the planet's rivers. However, based upon what data we could gather from triangulating the position of the tricorder, they are at least four days' walk from out current position."

"I don't want to leave this random mysterious transporter unattended, really," he said slowly. "But if you think it's best for morale that we move –"

"Negative," Spock assured him. "Lieutenants Uhura and Riley and Ensign Vro-Hath'wa are in no immediate danger, and crew morale is best served by remaining in your presence, sir."

Huh. "I think there's a compliment in there somewhere, Commander. Not going all human on us, are you?"

He heard a mutter under Spock's breath that sounded suspiciously like _Surak forbid_, and laughed as he went back toward their dwindling fire, where Sulu was seeing if the chalky taste of the energy drinks could be improved by heating them to a coffee-like temperature.

They couldn't.

"If I left it out all day d'you think the sugars in it would ferment?"

"Don't," he warned dryly. "Last thing I need is a crewman with food poisoning from amateur hooch." Scotty would have found a way, though, he thought fondly, and was somewhat relieved to find that the sharp, glaring agony of thinking of their dead friends was somewhat dulled this morning.

That could mean his mind was adjusting, or it could just mean that he was pulling a Vulcan trick and firmly shoving anything which could distract his focus into a locked box in the closet which was his mind.

Or it could be the fact that he was watching Anderssen try to get into his left shoe while balancing on one foot, hopping about like a rabbit on steroids until he collapsed on his backside in the pebbly ground.

Sometimes he really felt like he was dad to a bunch of kids.

Did that make Spock the mom, or the no-nonsense maiden aunt?

A dark look told him that while Spock might not be able to read his mind, he could take a good guess, and didn't like the direction of his thoughts.

He cleared his throat, employed his most innocent expression, and hastily began to divvy up the group into exploratory teams.

* * *

><p>Twelve weary, hungry, hot, and otherwise thoroughly unpleasant hours later, they all met back at the campsite in varying degrees of frustration and exhaustion, with little to nothing to show for their efforts.<p>

"I think we may take this day as proof that Q is the entity behind the design of this planet," Spock reported, in a tone that on a human would indicate utter hatred for the person in question.

Jim was sprawled on his back on the ground, heedless of the rocks in his hair (at this point what was another batch of dust and grime), rubbing restlessly at his sunburned nose. "Explain," he sighed, trying to blot out the mental daydreams of a cold iced tea and a real water shower.

Not to mention his silver lady.

"Lieutenant Anderssen's tricorder picked up the signs of leafy vegetation and running water, at three separate points during our exploration," the Vulcan explained. "On each of these occasions, when we reached the location in question, said vegetation and the river were nowhere to be found."

"He's toying with us, in other words. Sulu, Chekov, knock it off!" he bellowed toward Spock's left, where the two crewmen in question were on the verge of turning from friendly sparring into a knock-down, drag-out fistfight. "You really think we have time for that? Both of you cool it, or separate until you want to act like adults!"

Suddenly shamefaced, both men blushed a bright red and stepped back from each other, muttering embarrassed apologies. He waited until they'd elbowed each other once or twice and then moved toward the camp together, before turning his attention back to his First.

"Sorry. But we've got to keep it together – we're all on thin ice right now and all it'd take is one wrong move for someone to explode."

Spock nodded, not commenting on the choice of metaphor nor on Jim's breaking up the fight well before it had gotten out of hand; why would he, when they both knew better than most exactly what might happen in that eventuality. "I concur."

"Go ahead with what you were saying, then. Mind walking with me so we can see about the evening ration situation?"

"Affirmative."

Jim hauled himself to his feet and grimaced as a cloud of dust settled behind him from his grimy clothing. "Boy, do I really need a shower."

"Affirmative."

He grinned, and elbowed the Vulcan, who somehow still ended up looking the best out of all of them (he wouldn't have been surprised to see the guy's hair still stay immaculately in place in the middle of a tornado). "_So_, what were you saying about the shelter and fresh water situation? Q's made this planet's resources a shape-shifter?"

"An imprecise and not entirely accurate analogy, but the elements are not dissimilar. Obviously the Omnipotent does not intend for us to reach a place of possible semi-permanent shelter or running water until he so chooses – at least not under such means as we have been attempting."

"Lovely." He dug through the communal rations pack and sat back on his heels, looking up at Spock's towering height. "If we continue small rations, we've got enough food for another ten days, give or take. But the sport drinks will be gone in two, and though we have enough powdered electrolyte/nutrient mixes and purification tablets for another two weeks that doesn't help if we have nothing to dissolve them in. Did you check in with Uhura again?"

"Mr. Greco did, at the scheduled check-in time. She reports no change; they are as powerless as we are, and have gained nothing from exploring as we have."

"No signs of other survivors?" It was a vain hope, but he had to ask.

"Negative." Spock's voice was gentle. "However, should malfunctions have occurred in escape pods, or should the navigational systems not recognized this as an actual planet due to its questionable existence, that does not mean many of the crew did not survive. They could simply be awaiting rescue outside the planet's atmosphere. Also, there could very well be more crewmen stranded planetside who simply do not have a method of communication."

"Right." He blew out a deep breath, and stood as the rest of his crew began trickling back, looking none too excited about the evening meal. "Dig in, guys. Your choices are…bacon or mint mocha flavored."

He noted with amusement the mumbled "Ew" coming from their burly security detail, but tossed the bars to Anderssen to divide up amongst themselves.

"Sir?"

"I'm not hungry at the moment, Ensign; I'll have something later if I feel like I'm starving," he assured McDonnell. Spock's sharp look informed him that he'd better not be trying to pull another self-sacrificing Tarsus IV act, and he rolled his eyes. Honestly, the drama. "I'm legitimately not hungry, and I really don't like mint," he protested, arms folded.

"Who does?" Sulu muttered, nobly taking the bar since everyone else was eyeing it with trepidation. "And who in Medical stocked these emergency ration packs, anyhow? I'll bet it was Chapel getting revenge for the stunt with the rubber gloves last month. Remind me to –" he froze, realizing what he'd said, and rubbed a hand over his eyes. "Sorry, sir."

Jim smiled, pulling the young man into a one-armed hug around the shoulders. "Listen," he directed, encompassing them all with his eyes, and making eye contact with each. "We can't stop correcting ourselves and censoring our conversation just because it reminds us of what happened. It – it makes the event less meaningful, and cheapens the memory of the people we love – loved – who aren't with us. Don't stop yourselves from talking about the ship, guys." He swallowed, proud of the fact that his voice was only just the tiniest bit shaky. "They deserve to be remembered by us, and remembered with a smile."

His voice softened, roughened. "Did you know after that mission on Artemis II, where we were stranded for forty-eight hours with no rations other than the two bars and purification tablets Mr. Spock keeps stashed in that tricked-out tricorder of his, Bones actually filled out a requisition form for _fried-chicken_-flavored ration bars?" Sulu snorted with laughter, and the others cracked watery smiles. "For real, it showed up on my desk along with the usual requests for medicinal supplies and equipment." He mimicked checking off a list on a data-padd as he 'read' each item. "Test tubes, cryo-stasis units, vaccination tables – fried chicken ration bars. Try explaining that to Admiral Komack." More laughter, genuine this time.

"What was more remarkable was that the form was filled out in triplicate and sent to me as well, no doubt so as to not be overlooked,'" Spock added with bone-dry humor.

"So now, the question is," Jim continued, grinning at his helmsman as they sat around the small fire, "what, exactly, are we talking about when we say 'stunt with the rubber gloves?"

* * *

><p>"Captain. <em>Captain<em>."

He jerked upright from where he'd been sort of half-leaning against his First Officer, half-drifting in and out of a light doze. Darkness was falling, and the stars were beginning to twinkle overhead. Their second night spent on this godforsaken ball of rock, not even knowing if anyone in the galaxy knew where they were or how many of them were left.

"Sorry," he rasped. Spock silently handed him the half-drunk bottle of energy drink. Ugh, cherry flavored. He was allergic to the blue one, unfortunately, so it was all he could drink. "Thanks. What's up?"

"I have been meditating on our current predicament, and I believe I have come to a somewhat startling, though inescapable, conclusion regarding Q's interference in this matter."

Sleep and cough-syrupy aftertaste forgotten, he bolted upright. Spock's eyes were glinting in the dim light, alert and in a state of suppressed energy which usually signified a massive breakthrough in his departments aboard ship. Here, Jim knew it meant he'd figured it out, at least enough to get them started. Thank everything, someone had some small control over this mess. And judging from the hopeful looks the rest of his men were giving them, they were of the same mind.

"We're all ears, Mr. Spock. Er, no offense."

Spock's lips quirked briefly, and they both silently acknowledged an absent friend and his caustic insults. Then, "Consider," Spock said, and he could tell from the way the words began getting clipped into a staccato pulse that the Vulcan was more exited than he would ever show. "The manner in which Q brought his initial arguments before us."

"A game," he supplied.

"Correct. Every bent of his conversation lent itself toward that same metaphor – a game. Complete with players, rules, gambits, and the ability to win."

The lightbulb didn't just flicker into existence, it illuminated every shadow in his mind. "You're saying you think that's the key – that Q was basically foreshadowing with us, that there's a game metaphor hidden in whatever tests he was going to throw at us. We have to play the game."

Spock nodded, eyes bright with satisfaction which accompanies knowledge of truth. "We are all of us a part of his great game, Captain."

Jim remembered reading an old Earth literature story once with about that same title, and shivered. "So he's toying with us, putting us into place as game pieces, basically."

"I believe that is the logical conclusion."

"And then how, exactly, am I supposed to win if I don't even know what the game is or what its rules are?" he snarled, running a hand through his hair.

Spock's eyes gleamed. "There I believe I may have a possible solution, Captain."

He raised an eyebrow, and made himself comfortable. "Shoot," he said with a wave.

"Consider. Ensign, your tricorder and its three-dimensional diagrams of this planet." Across from them, Chekov scrambled for the instrument and handed it over, wide-eyed. "When we consider that we have no real record of this planet's existence, we may take it as a working hypothesis that it was created by Q for this specific purpose. And while the Omnipotent does seem to be illogically predisposed to wreaking havoc in a childish manner unbecoming his omniscience, he does however have a history of leaving indications among his victims of the solution to their problems."

"What sort of clues?"

"When scrutinizing the data regarding this unusual planet, I was struck by how impossible the topography is, given the density readings and geological readings we have taken. Besides the fact that this planet has apparently had no history of any such traumatic ecological crises which would produce the unusual topography, there is also the startling discovery that the entire planet is actually laid out with what appears to be mathematical precision. In other words," the Vulcan continued, glancing significantly at him from the depths of his program, "quite coincidental, impossibly so, to have been formed naturally."

"Show me," he demanded, scooting closer.

Spock retrieved the program and activated the diagrams. Bluish holographic images popped into existence, detailing the topography of the planet.

"The planet exists primarily as divided into seven separate areas, from what data our scans can retrieve," he said, indicating such. "The rivers which were mentioned previously divide the flat lands into three sections – nearly equally proportioned sections, I might add. There is this raised area here, which Lieutenant Anderssen explained to us was impenetrable to human climbing skills. At the opposite side of the planet, exist two other such plateaus, though not as high in elevation, and here along the planet's southern pole exists another such. All of these four raised areas are also the same basic size, as well as uniformly smaller compared to the lowlands."

"Three large flat areas, four raised areas. That is weirdly systematic," he agreed, frowning in thought.

"Far too systematic to be anything but designed that way," Spock countered. "But that is not the most significant portion of this analysis."

"Go on."

"The most significant factor, Captain, is that each of these regions has an area measurement which is a square number."

He blinked. "I don't follow you."

"Is simple mathematics, sir," Chekov interjected, his young face more animated than he had been thus far. Spock was silent, allowing the ensign to proceed, which Jim took to mean that it had been Chekov's observation initially. "Length times height equals area, and each of these area measurements is a square number."

"In other words, even though the areas are not precisely squares themselves, they could be reshaped to be," Spock added pointedly.

"What's the significance of that?" he asked, still somewhat mystified.

"Nothing in itself, but it is indicative that this entire planet is, in reality…a game board,"  
>was the slow reply.<p>

Of _course_! "A game board! Q created the whole thing as our playing field!" he exclaimed. "And we're the playing pieces!"

"Precisely," Spock agreed. "The only question remaining to be answered now is, what exactly is the game?"

"Chekov, can you reprogram this thing so that we can see the proportions of each of the six areas beside each other? And revamp them into squares while you're at it," he ordered, watching as the navigator's fingers flew, re-sketching the diagrams in the air. "Good. So, we have three large playing fields, and four considerably smaller ones – what is it, Spock?"

The Vulcan's eyes had suddenly narrowed. "Ensign," he instructed, and Chekov relinquished the instrument again. "Observe, Captain. If we keep as constant the elevation of each area from what functions as this planet's sea level…" he quickly re-arranged the fields into their respective heights, "they are nowhere near the same level of height. We have, literally, five playing 'levels,' seven playing 'fields.'"

"Five levels, seven fields," he murmured, brain thinking furiously. "Possible pattern?"

"It could be a vid-game, Captain," Sulu interjected thoughtfully. "Advancement to the next level? We are, after all, currently on the lowest one."

"If that is the case, then why haven't we encountered any sort of test to advance, in the last thirty hours since we've been stranded? A vid-game has constant movement, constant requirements or else you lose. And then wouldn't each level be the same size?"

"Not necessarily, but I do agree that the lack of immediate visual testing is contradictory to the idea of a virtual reality game," Spock added thoughtfully.

"And if that were the case," Jim said morosely, picking at a loose thread on his tunic, "Q wouldn't have had to destroy the _Enterprise _to get us here; we were already on the planet when it – when it blew."

Spock sat up just that fraction straighter, which was a clear indication that an idea had occurred to him.

"Spill it, Spock!"

"Two possibilities. One, that the ship itself was Level One; we are now on the second level."

"I dunno…"

"I am more inclined to the second possibility, sir," the Vulcan agreed, nodding, "which is that Q, quite simply, removed our most effective and powerful game piece from the playing field. I believe it would qualify as a particularly devastating opening gambit."

The jumped-up communicator dropped with a crash on the rocky ground as it fell from suddenly nerveless hands. Ignoring the looks of surprise and worry, Jim rocketed to his feet and began to pace furiously, mind going a thousand kilometers a minute.

"Gambit. Gambit…GAMBIT, Spock!" he suddenly shouted, whirling on his startled crew.

Spock's eyebrow inched upward. "Sir?"

"Seven playing fields, five levels," he said excitedly, gesticulating wildly in the air. "And remember, Q doesn't know you and I as well as he wants to think he does; but he does know Old You."

The eyebrows frowned.

He skidded back toward the bunch, flinging himself on his knees and appropriating the tricorder without asking. "If we re-arrange these playing fields," he muttered, almost to himself, fingers flying along sketch pathways. "And…computer, keeping locational properties, export diagram to three-dimensional sketch pad…and if we then add some supports and a base…curve the supports thusly…and rearrange again…"

Beaming, he sat back on his heels, holding up the diagram before his stunned audience. "And here, gentlemen, we have a very functional tri-D chess board."

* * *

><p>Six pairs of eyes stared at him.<p>

"A chess board! But of course!" Anderssen then exclaimed. "It makes complete sense now!"

"I know how to play, but I don't really love the game," Jim said, glancing at Spock's expression, "but you're a chessmaster and our parallel counterparts didn't play much else. And even I know the game's the easiest one to make metaphors out of."

"Holy cow," Anderssen mused suddenly. "I just realized."

"What, Lieutenant?"

"Anderssen, Greco, McDonnell, Riley, Vro-Hathwa," he informed them, eyes lighting up. "Adolf Anderssen was the winner of the very first chess tournament, back in Old Earth's 1851. Gioacchino Greco was an influential writer in the strategizing genre during the Terran 1400s. Michael McDonnell was the first non-Terran to win a chess tournament when Tri-D Chess was just coming into play during the Galactic Chess Olympics, two hundred years ago. A guy named Bruce Riley was the pioneer of the computerized version of Tri-D chess, and Lars'sn'Vro-Hathwa was the last grandmaster of the GCO. No relation to our Vro, but it's not a common name."

Jim looked askance at the young man, and was aware that his crew were bug-eyedly doing the same – even Spock, who looked like he was going to squee with pride in an entirely Vulcan way. "You were one of those Chess Club geeks the Linguistics Club liked to drink under the table on Friday nights at the Academy, weren't you."

The scientist blushed. "I majored in Botanical Sciences, minored in Tactical Strategy – used the game as the basis for most of my theses," he muttered, obviously embarrassed. "But it's a little weird that the five non-command-chain people you have down here, Captain, are all named after famous figures in the chess industry over the centuries."

"Then it is a giant game, and ve are the playing pieces," Chekov muttered, sketching a quick set into existence in the art program. "But who is vhich?"

"More importantly, how many do we have left, and are we both black and white or just white?" Sulu added morosely. "Does that mean everyone except sixteen, or thirty-two at most, of us died when the _Enterprise _went down?"

Jim felt the color drain slightly from his face, and ignored the feeble flash of sheer terror which threatened to flicker again into existence. He would not give in to panic again – because if this were indeed a game, then there was the possibility that all was not as it seemed. Surely Q wasn't going to kill off his entire crew for keeps.

Even if he was more than capable of doing it.

Unless this exact scenario was what Q had been referring to when he said if Jim didn't change his ways then he'd lose everything that mattered to him.

He bit his lip. "Okay, so we have two possibilities. One, that we're both sides of the game."

"Meaning half of us are black pieces, half are white," Greco interjected.

At his elbow examining the tricorder, Spock nodded. "Correct, Ensign. Although I am not convinced that is the scenario; it would mean that half the survivors are on opposing sides. It seems more likely that Q is simply functioning as our antagonist or that our opponents are as yet unseen."

_Unless he's saying that I'm a one-man team, that would fit with the problems here_, he thought miserably. _Me against my crew? Do I really have to make them checkmate me to get us out of here?_

"In addition, factors as we know it would indicate that we are all on the same team," Spock continued, "simply based upon chess logistics. If one or more of us were on an opposing side, each of us as playing pieces would have been in jeopardy long before now, and we would not be clustered on the lowest of the tri-d levels."

He felt the tension leech from his shoulders at the sensible explanation. Wiping his brow, he nodded. "So we're all…what, you think black, probably?"

Spock nodded. "Since Q undoubtedly made the first move, I would agree so. In practicality, however, it matters little."

"Okay, so there's seven of us, and three more – Uhura, Riley, and Vro-Hathwa," Jim ticked off on his fingers. "But…who's what?"

"Mr. Spock's probably the queen," Anderssen offered thoughtfully, "since he's the most powerful one of us."

One eyebrow lifted. "I disagree, Lieutenant; my methodology and processes of thinking are far too linear and predictable to be categorized as that playing piece."

"Then it's you, Captain," Sulu interjected. "First into the fray, last out, most unpredictable, most important playing piece…it fits."

He wasn't so sure, but he didn't have a better idea at the moment.

"So you think Mr. Spock's a rook, then? It's the most powerful piece after the queen, and it only moves laterally," Anderssen said.

"Nyet, nyet," Chekov said suddenly. "Not if Keptin Kirk is the queen."

"Why would you say that, Ensign?"

"If Keptin is the Queen, then you must be King, sir," the young man replied, shrugging. "Is obvious. How many times does the keptin, how to say, leap in front of a bullet for you?"

"Ah, Chekov…"

"Ensign, that is somewhat irrelevant, as there are no bullets involved in the playing of tri-D chess."

"That's a misdirection if I ever heard one," Sulu muttered, grinning.

"I do not just randomly throw myself into the line of fire!" Jim sputtered, finally finding his voice. "And besides that, he's not my freakin' king!"

"Awkwarrrrd," McDonnell chirped from behind them, causing his Security mate to break out in a fit of laughter.

Spock's look of death stabbed decapitatingly over the others. Jim rubbed his forehead, repressing a moan. "This is ridiculous," he muttered.

"I think, sir," Anderssen not-so-smoothly changed the subject, with a glance at the helmsman and navigator, "that Mr. Chekov and Lieutenant Sulu are in all probability either your knights or bishops. Both sets of pieces work together almost symbiotically to cover every space on the chess board, and both play off each other's strengths in reaching a checkmate."

Jim nodded slowly. "And the other set?"

Anderssen shook his head. "No idea, sir."

"Who do you suppose are the rooks, then, if you don't think Spock is one?" Sulu asked, nudging the blond beside him.

"Vell," Chekov began, blinking thoughtfully, "one of the functions of a Rook is castling, vhich is designed to keep the King safe."

"There's no castling in tri-d Chess, Ensign," Jim stepped in, having already thought that far ahead.

"There is if you _cheat_, apparently," Sulu grumbled, glaring at the young navigator, who was now blushing a fiery hue.

"And I'm all for cheating in its place," Jim added with a meaningful laugh, "but not when we're trying to figure this mess out."

"Traditionally," Spock spoke up for the first time, and Jim could see he had been revolving the entire game around in his mind, discarding and conjecturing hypotheses until he was as undecided as the rest of them, "a castle in your Terran history was an indication of safety, of the power which comes from security."

"You're saying Security people are the rooks?" O'Donnell asked incredulously.

"I doubt it; everyone knows we're more like the pawns," Greco snorted, before tossing back the rest of his water.

Realization hit him like a thunderclap. "No, that's not what he's saying," he spoke quietly. "He's saying the Rooks are people who represent safety and protection. And keep in mind Q is aiming this whole game directly at me."

"Captain?"

"Two people make me feel totally safe," he answered, eyes tracing the outlines of the rocks in the distance.

"Who's that, sir?" Anderssen asked.

"One is Spock; probably he actually is a Rook, Lieutenant."

Spock made no verbal answer, but his eyes voiced the agreement.

"The other is – _was_, Dr. McCoy," he finally said, wiping a hand across his mouth.

Silence fell for a few minutes. Then, "So we have to take into consideration that we could well be missing half or more of our playing pieces, sir?" Sulu asked carefully.

He nodded. "Bones and Spock would, to me, be my castles. And if Spock's a Rook, then…" A light bulb went off. "The _Enterprise _is the King! The goal of all of us is for one purpose – Starfleet's purpose – to protect the ship!"

"That does not work, though, sir," Chekov protested over the wind as it whipped up around them.

"Why not?"

"Because, sir," the young man said earnestly, "if the _Enterprise_is in reality the King, then the game is already over!"

Silence.

"…And on that depressing note, are you keeping an eye on the radiation levels, Mr. Anderssen?" Jim asked dryly.

The young man nodded. "Still at acceptable levels, sir. I have an alert set to notify us of any drastic change."

"Returning to the metaphorical chess board," Spock said, as his dark eyes roved the projected diagrams, "I foresee three problems."

"Being?"

"That our survival until rescue may be the object of the game, for one." Five looks of human dismay greeted him. "Which then leads into the second difficulty," he added.

Jim rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the papery dryness of sunburn. "And that is?"

"That we are incapable of even playing the game, much less of winning it, unless we know precisely which of us is each playing piece."

"Because if we're wrong and move the wrong one, we're either moving illegally which disqualifies us, or else we'll be walking straight into checkmate," Jim supplied. "Makes sense."

"Question," Sulu piped up from where he'd been inspecting a lichen-like substance plastered under a nearby rock. "I get the whole chess metaphor, and it makes sense. But one thing bothers me: if we're, say, the white pieces on a chess board…then where the heck are the opposition, the black pieces?"

Spock shot him an approving look before turning back. "Precisely the third problem I see in this, Captain," he said, addressing Jim directly now. "We are incapable of checkmating our opponent if we have no idea where his own pieces are on the game board. Granted, the entire scenario is only loose metaphor, and so we quite possibly could be over-thinking the strategy."

"Yeah, it's not a strict chess game since we've all moved together from the get-go with no repercussions," he agreed. "But you have a point, Mr. Spock. We can't beat Q's game until we at least know what pieces we are."

"More importantly," Spock answered, his dark eyes smoldering in the reflected embers of the fire, "we cannot beat his game until we know what pieces remain in play, and which are lost to us; to attempt a victory with no knowledge of one's opponent or one's reinforcements is utter foolishness."

Jim stared into the flickering embers, and the spirit-image of a fireball strea_ked across the sky as he watched, the whole planet shuddering and burning all around and under their feet, Bones and Scotty and Sulu and Chekov standing behind him as he watched the Enterprise burn _(his choice? His authorization? Destroying his own ship? What would make him do such a thing?), _not knowing where Spock was or if he was even still alive in some form or fashion –_

He shook his head, shivering, as the ghost-images receded. This planet was stable, there was no seismic activity anywhere, and Spock – his Spock, not an old and wise and so-very-half-human one – was here, sitting beside him and watching him with distinguishable concern.

And Bones was…gone.

He could be forgiven, he thought bitterly, the thought that he'd already lost whatever game Q was playing with them, and that there really was nothing left for him to fight for.

* * *

><p><strong>End Middle Game<strong>


	13. End Game:  Promotion

**End Game**

* * *

><p><strong><em>Promotion: the exchange of a pawn for a more valuable playing piece once the pawn has reached the eighth rank<em>**

Their night was restless, on all their parts. Tempers were fraying, and nerves were strained. Jim had never in his life been so grateful for Spock's calm temperament and skill in diffusing tension as he was in the next twelve hours. After another morning of exploration with no success in discovering anything which would aid their odds of survival, they regrouped at the strange alien transporter for a midday snack and reconnoiter.

"Who was the idiot who decided hamburger was a good flavor for a meal bar?"

"Same idiot who decided all energy drinks have to be flavored in children's Kool-aid flavors, I'll bet."

"Hey, there's nothing wrong with Merry Cherry Fizz, Anderssen, I'll have you know."

"Save it, guys, please," Jim said wearily, rubbing his forehead. Yeow, he was really and truly sunburned now, and looking at Chekov he could see that the fair-skinned Russian was sporting a dangerously pink nose and cheekbones. "Mr. Spock, tell me there's something else we haven't thought of that we could use to get an edge in this."

The Vulcan was silent, and avoided his eyes when he moved toward him.

"Spock?"

"It is not an…acceptable strategy at this time, Captain."

"And being stuck here like this indefinitely _is _acceptable? I want to hear it, at least, Mr. Spock." He was Captain Kirk now, not Jim, and the difference in orders was obvious. "Let me be the judge of its acceptability. Which chess strategy are you considering?"

"The strategy of…pawn advancement," Spock said quietly.

The exhausted group went silent, letting that sink in.

Jim pulled himself up, firmly quashing the thrill of sheer possibility under the more important weight of _not on his watch_. "Okay, you're right. Out of the question."

"It is a _valid _strategy, given our current disadvantages," Spock said slowly, though he was obviously refusing to look Jim in the face.

"And out of the question, Commander. I will not sacrifice any member of this crew in the hopes that our conjectures are correct and we might gain back another who…could be of more specialized use," he amended his original thought into something more tactful.

Grecco and McDonnell looked relieved, and Jim couldn't blame them; it was obvious – even had become something of a flippant catchphrase in the Ops division – who were always the pawns in a landing party.

Anderssen was looking far too Spocklike, obviously thinking. "Mr. Spock is right, though, Captain," the young man finally said. "If you can switch out me for…one of the Vulcan ambassadors, for example, or Mr. Scott, your chances of survival to the end of the game drastically increase due to their knowledge of technology or superior physical strength."

_Don't tempt me, you stupid wonderful fool_. "This is not up for discussion or debate, Mr. Anderssen," he ground out, head aching at the very idea, reeling from the knowledge that the man probably would do it without question if his captain ordered it. "This isn't Scrabble where I can trade in letters I don't need in hopes of getting better ones. This is, until we are shown otherwise, real life, and I will not risk trading out a man to test a hypothesis, even if it is part of a 'game strategy.' _No one _in my crew is a pawn." He glared at each of his men in turn, holding the look until the other glanced away. "Besides, if anyone's going to take a risk to get one of our people back, it will be me," he added almost as an afterthought; it should be a given by now.

"Out of the question." Spock's response, using his own words of earlier, was immediate and brooked no argument.

Jim slowly rotated to face his impassive First. "I don't recall asking for your opinion on the matter, Commander."

"You did not, sir," the Vulcan agreed calmly. "However, you are neglecting one crucial fact, the single assertion upon which hinges this 'game' of Q's. I believe it might be termed the entire premise of the game, which has up to now apparently escaped your notice."

Bristling, he took a long breath to calm the by-now familiar anger at the words. "And what, exactly, do you suppose that is?" he asked, the tone clearly showing his skepticism of what appeared to be a statement not backed by logic.

Spock didn't even blink, only stared him down with all the force of Vulcan intensity. "The simple fact, Captain, that regardless of how you view yourself, or what piece you play in this game, one thing is clear to all of us – _you are not a pawn_."

Jim's lips tightened.

"He's right, sir," Greco spoke up bravely from behind them. Jim glanced incredulously over his shoulder at his Security man, but the guy to his credit stood his ground, chin lifted in defiance. "That's the first duty Security learns – the ship's safety is paramount, then the captain's. Doesn't matter if you don't agree with it, sir," the man added with an appropriate amount of respect, "it's our _job_. If this is a giant chess game, you can't substitute for anyone by virtue of the fact that you just aren't a pawn in the game, no matter _what _the rest of us are – that's the only certain thing. In fact, if you even try, you'll be making an illegal move and will forfeit the game by disqualifying all of us."

"But life is not a game, Ensign," he said quietly, his respect for his men growing by enormous leaps as the hours passed. "In reality, one life is not worth more than another."

"That depends, Captain," the young science lieutenant spoke up quietly, "upon whose standards of value you're using." Blue eyes flicked to Anderssen, smoldering, but the scientist continued doggedly. "You can't perform an experiment with an unstable set of boundaries; the variables change with bias. You speak of all life being equally valuable, and while that makes a sort of sense you can't judge value and worth based upon your standard as compared to mine, or Mr. Spock's, or Greco's, or anyone else's. Perception of worth is a _variable_, not a constant."

"That will do, Mr. Anderssen," Spock's calm voice washed over them all, quieting the tension that had been ratcheting up. The young man subsided, flushing, with an acquiescing nod. "He is correct, however, Captain," the Vulcan continued, lowering his voice as he moved closer to Jim, who was still stunned at the depth of loyalty his people had just shown him. "One life may not, technically, be worth more than another to an impartial being – but reality is not comprised of impartial beings. You must accept the fact that, to every man in your crew, you are not a pawn. That is the order of things, and that knowledge is part of your crew's success in their respective positions."

"I can't accept that," Jim whispered, eyes on the ground.

"Then we will lose this game, Captain," Spock replied soberly, "for Q is, as Mr. Anderssen said, an impartial judge of worth. It will make little difference to him, should we win or lose; and lose we will, if you cannot accept that which is, and strategize accordingly. Too many have died during this mission, Captain; but more will, if we do not begin to win the game."

Jim's head jerked up, eyes wide with grief and pain. "It isn't fair," he said desperately.

"Not in the least," was the gentle agreement. "However, life rarely is. We of all beings should know this."

"Yeah." He scraped a hand across his face. "I just – Anderssen, no!"

Both of them jerked around only just in time to see the pre-programmed lights on the control panel blinking, the young scientist already in place on the unfamiliar transporter pad. Determination shone in his dark eyes as he smiled.

"Spock!"

The Vulcan had already dived for the console and was attempting to override the transport, fingers dancing over the controls. Only a split second, and his eyes lifted to Jim's. He silently shook his head.

Anderssen smiled and threw his captain a half-salute as he disappeared in a haze of transport particles, leaving them all staring, stunned, at the empty pad where he had been.

Jim thought he was going to be sick, in fact was breathing through his mouth in an effort to quench the nausea at the idea that one of his few remaining crewmen had just basically sacrificed himself for nothing – when the panel under Spock's still fingers beeped. The Vulcan's eyes flitted down to the controls, and then an eyebrow went up.

"…Incoming transport, Captain," he said slowly, as if hardly believing it himself.

Jim turned and stared as a body formed and coalesced in a shimmer of particles, gradually solidifying on the transport pad.

Then his heart jerked painfully in his chest before starting again, shock pounding it into a rapid rhythm which rushed blood through him so quickly he could count his pulse in his ears.

Chekov's jaw dropped, and he heard a faint yelp of surprise from his Security men. Spock's eyes widened just a fraction, which was basically the Vulcan equivalent of a shriek.

"_Holy _crap," Sulu muttered, peering over his shoulder, and Jim mutely echoed the sentiment.

The figure, finally solidified completely, stumbled slightly off the platform, growling something under its breath about the dangers of unreliable transport. Green eyes blinked for a second, taking in the completely freaked-out looks of the ragtag group.

"Ah…guess you weren't exactly expectin' me, then?" an entirely unharmed Leonard McCoy drawled, slinging his medical field kit over one shoulder.

* * *

><p>Jim was vaguely aware that the strangled noise that emerged from his mouth wasn't exactly professional or even remotely masculine, but at that moment was too intent on fighting his way out of the haze of shock to really care.<p>

Bones was looking at him weird, approaching cautiously, as if he was slightly scared of him.

"You okay, Jim?" The words sounded distant, and he realized he was stepping backward as the physician stepped forward. He stopped, not sure why he'd been retreating in the first place other than his brain's short-circuited screeching that this wasn't possible, that he was dead and no wait even Q had to have better taste than that and he shouldn't be standing here looking perfectly fine and unharmed and worried and concerned and _alive_…

_Alive_.

He heard his own laugh as if through a wind tunnel, echoing and tinny, and more like a half-hysterical giggle than a full laugh, and about two octaves too high in pitch, and –

And he couldn't seem to stop, now that it occurred to him that everyone was looking at him like he was a few rows short of a cornfield (which was actually quite possible) or like he was about to do something ridiculously embarrassing like bursting into tears or fainting.

"Heh," he managed to say through the giggle (which sounded more like a sob, actually, if he stopped to listen to himself, and felt more like one too, being wrenched out from deep inside him), "…you're not dead."

"Uh…no?" Bones hazarded slowly, rapidly flicking a puzzled glance in Spock's direction. The Vulcan's worried eyebrows moved another fraction downward, no doubt disapproving of his captain's high-pitched tonality. Or else trying to figure out if the undead Bones (ha skeleton jokes) was out for brains.

Spock without a brain. Scary mental images. Spock's brain could, like, run a whole planet with his awesomeness, he bet.

A tiny blinking cursor was flashing in his eyes – or was that the haze of shock, was he about to pass out?

_Mind rebooting._

"That's awesome," he croaked.

"Yeeeah," was the cautious agreement.

Rubbing the heels of both hands over his eyes to clear them, he then drew them away, pausing. They were shaking worse than he'd ever seen before – like he was palsied or something.

"But…" Chekov was the one who saved the conversation from going completely down the Hill of Awkwardness, "Ve found your crashed escape pod, Doctor!"

"My what?" the physician asked, incredulous.

"Your escape pod," Jim managed, clenching both hands together to hide the fact that they were trembling. "Crashed about two kilometers west of here. Not even enough debris to identify. No survivors according to the crash logs."

McCoy turned white. "And here I am thinkin' it was just retrograde amnesia, why I can't remember anything past jettisoning the pod before the ship blew," he murmured, rubbing aimlessly at his left temple. "Wondered why I just stepped off a transporter platform, but figured I'd just imagined everything…"

"Not imagination," Jim said thickly. "As far as I know we're all that's left, us and Uhura and two of her comms people."

"But hold on a second, if you found my escape pod crashed on the surface here, what'm I doin' alive?"

"Pawn advancement," Spock answered bleakly, and Jim saw the haunted look in his eyes; he loved his Science people, in his own weirdly logical way, and Anderssen's sacrifice had to be the worst loss he'd had since this second five-year mission began. "This entire series of events is a metaphorical chess game engineered by Q. The Lieutenant realized the principle of pawn advancement would apply in this situation and sacrificed himself to permit the captain to bring back the captured 'playing piece' which he values most."

"The transporter must have picked up on my subconscious in that case," Jim pointed out, thinking furiously. "Is the whole game just a mental exercise, or do we have to physically move like Anderssen did? And where are these pieces coming from, the ones who have been 'captured' and removed from the playing field? Are they still alive somewhere, just being held, or are they gone for good?"

"Physical transport must be necessary at least between levels, since the lieutenant's dematerialization and Dr. McCoy's rematerialization actually did take place." Spock pulled up schematics from the transporter memory banks to study them closely. He pointed suddenly to their current level and then the Queen's level. "However, due to the fact that the doctor appeared here and not on the next level – where a playing piece _should_ have landed in a true tri-D chess pawn-advancement – I would conjecture that a certain amount of the game is entirely cerebral, or metaphorical rather than literal. The Doctor should have appeared at the coordinates to which Anderssen transported, rather than regressing to _our _playing level."

Jim straightened, eyes gleaming with an almost manic edge. This was something he could work with. "So it's not a straightforward chess game," he stated, just to clarify.

"I do not believe so, Captain. Too many factors indicate against such a hypothesis, not the least of which has been a conspicuous absence of any 'black' playing pieces."

"We can't fight an enemy that doesn't exist, and we haven't seen the other side of the board at all. Plus we've all stuck together as a group, whereas real chess pieces move different directions in a real game."

Spock nodded in approval. "Precisely. It is based more upon metaphor and less upon actual tri-D chess rules; the gaming similarities are more clues than boundaries. And carrying that same logic to its natural conclusion, it would indicate that a victory and end-game would not _necessarily _constitute physical checkmate."

Jim had to hand it to Q. This was intricate enough to give him a headache. He could only hope to return the favor to the Omnipotent in spades, once he figured out how to beat the game-which-wasn't-really-a-game.

But right now…

He stood for a second, just looking Bones up and down, drinking in the sight of the guy alive, and unharmed, and just standing there watching him and Spock bounce ideas off each other like a cat following a ping-pong ball with his eyes…

He whooped something incoherent and had just enough time to register the panic in the older man's face before he jumped him, pounding him on the back hard enough to cause a coughing fit.

"You're alive!" he shouted, mostly incoherent, into the physician's shoulder.

"Yeow, ease off, Jim," was the testy reply. He felt the tolerant wince at the decibel level, before two arms returned the hug with much more force than Spock had hours before.

A ripple of relieved laughter sounded behind him from his crew, and he finally stepped back, hands on the blue-clad shoulders.

"I dunno much about chess, Jim, but I know pawn advancement requires a substitution," McCoy said soberly. "Who was it?"

Lead settled in his stomach, heavy and nauseating, and he saw the brief flicker of pain in Spock's eyes when he glanced that direction. His Science officer was greatly beloved by his science staff and the feeling – despite the accursed word, that's what it was – was mutual.

"Anderssen," he answered, eyes shining as he glanced at the transporter. "From Xenobio."

McCoy's face was lined with weariness. "These stupid brave kids," he murmured.

"Yeah." Jim swallowed. "He'll get a commendation for that, I promise. And," he continued, hope flickering for the first time as he realized the significance of his conversation with Spock, "if this is just part of the game, then technically the pieces are still in existence despite being 'captured' or removed from the game."

"So you're saying he's just out of the game, not dead," Sulu reiterated.

He nodded. "Hopefully he's just out of play for now." Oh, how he hoped that were true.

"So what do we do now, Keptin?" Chekov asked, glancing at the transporter resolutely. "If the game, like Meester Spock says, is mostly cerebral, then it would seem that somehow checkmate must also be more mental than physical, since ve have no idea vhere our opponents' pieces are."

"It would also," McDonnell spoke up from behind the group, where he was scanning the horizons for any indication that their transport had been noticed by anyone, "indicate that the Captain needs his most powerful playing pieces around him if he's going to figure out what to do to produce an end-game."

"Meaning the two of us need to swap out for Mr. Scott and Commander Giotto, or maybe one of the Vulcan ambassadors, probably," Greco agreed, looking with resignation at the transporter platform.

"No," Jim asserted firmly. "No one else sacrifices themselves until we figure out more of what's going on. And besides, Scotty and Cupcake aren't going to make me think or strategize any better than I am right now; that's not how we work together."

Spock was at his elbow now – the guy moved like a stalking panther, it was freaky – and spoke in an undertone. "It is however, Captain, how you and _I _work," he said quietly, and let that realization sink in slowly.

He felt the painful agony of loss which he'd been firmly suppressing well up inside him at the knowledge of what Spock meant. If one Spock would help him strategize, then two would only increase his chances. But, biting his lip, he shook his head again firmly. "I'm not playing with anyone else's lives, Spock," he said with resolution, arms folded against the still slight tremble of shock. "This is already risky enough. I don't like uncertainties, and I'm not going to traumatize anyone else more than I already have getting us into this mess."

Spock looked uncertain, and Jim conjured up a mostly-real smile from somewhere deep inside him. "Besides," he added, elbowing the stiff figure, "why would I need him if I have you?"

If anything, Spock looked more uncertain. "He does offer a certain venue of wisdom and foresight which I lack, sir."

Frowning, he shook his head, still keeping his voice down so as to not let the rest of the uninformed crew hear them talking about spatial paradox. "Which you only lack due to the fact that he has over a century on you. Cut yourself some slack, Commander."

"It is not that," Spock replied, inspecting his boots with entirely too much attention.

Jim stepped closer, into his personal space. If there were issues here that hadn't been resolved by now and he'd not noticed them, then there was a serious problem. And serious problems could get them killed at this stage in the game. "Explain?" he asked, a request rather than an order.

"You…do not tend to have the same sort of interaction with my elder counterpart, Captain."

"Meaning…?" He was treading on thin ice; of course their interactions (what there were of them, since they didn't come into contact as often as people seemed to think; they had their own lives and destinies now) were different; they were different people.

Spock's expression was carefully blank, but he knew the guy well enough to see the discomfort in his posture, the tense set of his thin shoulders and the lines around his eyes which disappeared when he was relaxed. The Vulcan began to speak, stopped himself, shook his head. "It is unimportant, captain. I apologize for the suggestion."

"Whoa, whoa. Right, people, get lost for ten, okay?" he called to the group, who were still inspecting the alien transporter. "Chekov, take that thing apart and see if we have any chance of beaming something out or in without a simultaneous transfer taking place."

"Aye, keptin."

Greco and McDonnell remained within eyesight but they scattered along with the rest, leaving him with Spock. Bones shouldered his kit and started after the retreating figures, but both he and Jim were surprised to see Spock raise a remonstrative hand.

"You need not leave, Doctor. I find the sudden return of your grating presence to be an oddly reassuring return to normality."

The physician gaped at him. "You sayin' you missed me?"

"Bones, not now," he said, not even looking at the man. "Spock, I need you to spell this out for me; remember subtle doesn't work with me."

"Sir, I merely observe that you have far less conflict with my elder counterpart than with myself," Spock replied quietly. Jim sensed him shift his thin weight to the opposite foot – a Vulcan, with a nervous habit? Bizarre as the idea sounded. "Perhaps he would be better suited to aid you in discovering the course to take in achieving a checkmate in Q's game."

Jim scrubbed a hand through his hair, wincing at the amount of grime he could feel. "So, let me get this straight," he said, grasping absently at a few strands. "You think Old You would be better off helping me checkmate Q, based on the evidence that I don't fight with him?"

Spock looked peeved. "That is a skewed definition of the facts –"

"That is your definition of the facts, rephrased into something less stupid-sounding," he retorted. "If you seriously think I'd rather have him at my back than you then you, quite frankly, Mr. Spock, are a Constitution-class _idiot_."

"He is better adjusted to his dual nature, Captain."

"He's also, like, four hundred years old," he replied dryly. "Who do you think I'd rather have in a fistfight?"

"He possesses the benefit of knowing our futures."

"One of our possible futures. And no one knows if our destinies are even going to be remotely the same."

"Captain, I am merely attempting to draw your attention to the fact that –"

"Commander, get one thing through that stubborn head of yours," he interrupted, an unpardonable discourtesy but one which shock factor would get Spock's attention. "There's one very, very good reason why I would much rather have you at my back than anyone else in the galaxy."

"Sir?"

"He's not you," he said shortly, in a tone that indicated finality.

Spock looked unconvinced, and so he elaborated. "Spock, part of the reason we do argue so much is that I need to be able to push someone and they push back," he explained, with more earnestness than he'd felt in a long time. "I don't need a crew of yes-men, and I don't need a bunch of people in the command chain who will let me be a moron just so that they can laugh when I fall on my face. There were people who wanted me to do just that, when I took over captaincy of the Enterprise six years ago, Spock. You kept me from doing it, when you easily could have joined them. I need you, Spock." Boy, did he. Voice rough, he added, "You have…no idea, how much."

He didn't have time to beat around the bush here; his crew was going to get picked off one by one by Q if this really were a giant chess game, unless they moved into the offensive – and he didn't know enough about chess to successfully carry that kind of move out without aid. "I don't know where this insecurity came from but forget it, here and now – because if we're going to get out of this then I'm going to need you more than I ever have."

Spock looked at him, unmitigated surprise hidden deep in his eyes, and a faint flush colored his ear-tips. "Aye, sir."

Bones cleared his throat, pinching his forehead with one large hand. "You kids gonna kiss and make up, too?"


	14. End Game:  Swindle

**_Swindle: In chess, a ruse by which a losing player surprises his opponent, thereby achieving a win or draw instead of a loss_**

After two hours of experimenting with the alien transporter, Chekov came to the conclusion that one could not beam an object in without beaming something out, or vice-versa.

"Makes no sense at all, sir, but according to these schematics that is its function – a simultaneous exchange, not a transportation." The young Russian's wide eyes were alight with the excitement of new technological discovery. "I am not yet able to decode this programming; it is exceptionally detailed, far beyond vhat I have ever seen as human capabilities."

"I concur," Spock commented, closing down the programming windows on the shimmering display screen. "Such a feat of engineering is far beyond our comprehension, despite the incongruous appearance of the device, a visual amalgamation of several different types of transport beams both ancient and modern."

"Pointing again to super-human intelligence creating it," Jim supplied unnecessarily.

"Correct. Mr. Chekov, would you say transportation is safe if done within the parameters of the device's programming – a simultaneous exchange?"

"I believe so, Mr. Spock, though we haff no way of knowing for certain until it is tested."

"I can go and see if we can get Mr. Scott back," Greco offered from behind them.

Jim shook his head, proud of the young man's bravery. "It obviously operates on a subconscious level, tapping into the mind of the primary player, Greco. Who knows what it'll read as the person I need to see the most; we're not guaranteed Scotty. And besides, like I said – no one else risks themselves on this mission until we know what we're dealing with and how close the chess analogy – AUGH! Bones!"

"You're dehydrated and sunburnin', idiot," was the drawled response from his left side. Jim scowled, rubbing the sore spot on his neck where he'd just gotten stabbed with a rehydration hypo. "Want to develop skin cancer that's your business, but it's not happening on my watch."

"You're pretty pink too, Pavel," Sulu interjected, casting the young man's burned nose a concerned look.

"I am fine," the navigator said hastily, eyeing the fresh hypo in their CMO's hand. "No, really, am fine! Very fine!"

"Get back here, you! And don't think hiding behind Spock's gonna save you!"

The Vulcan sighed tolerantly, ignoring the ring-around-a-rosy game being played around his person. "Captain," he spoke up above the yelp from Chekov as Bones finally pounced, "I believe at this juncture our best course of action is to rendezvous with Lieutenant Uhura."

"And leave this?"

"If we are not going to utilize it, it is of little practical use in the game. Also, if we are truly in a game of Q's devising, then remaining in one position is only stalling the progress of said game. Whether the actual game play is more cerebral than physical or no, we gain nothing by remaining here."

"Makes sense, but it'll take forever for us to get there – should we try to find one of those rivers first?"

"Affirmative. Clean water will be our next necessity to procure in short order. Also, if any other escape pods or debris from the ship have landed on the planet, they will do so in the direction in which the lieutenant's party are camped, as that is the direction of orbit."

"Okay, see to it. We'll move out as soon as you think we're ready, see if we can make good tracks before darkness falls."

Behind him, he heard the fair-skinned McDonnell scream like a girl as he became Bones's third victim, and a genuine smile cracked across his features.

He'd never gripe about being yelled at by Bones again, that much was sure.

* * *

><p>The trek wasn't difficult, even if much of it was over rocky ground (they were either closer to the mountain ranges than their tricorders had said before, or else Q was shifting the planet's topography around them like he had with the water). But it was boring, and dry, and after two hours they had all basically fallen silent, the deathly stillness which indicated lack of life sapping the energy from all over them. Even Bones was uncharacteristically quiet, and Jim felt the weight of their predicament bearing down on his shoulders with every trudged, weary step.<p>

Finally he called a halt, a thirty-minute rest, because they were a few minutes short of snapping each others' heads off if they didn't have a break from marching over nondescript plains and rocky crags.

Greco scouted around them for any signs that the tricorder readings were changing, while McDonnell took apart their ration packs and re-distributed the weight which had shifted. Sulu dozed off against a rock, while Chekov wandered around with a tricorder, bemoaning the lack of complex sensor arrays which would no doubt make much of the unique elements found in the rocks around them.

Spock was giving Bones the business about something off to one side, accompanied by much human arm-flailing and Vulcan snide comments, and while he usually enjoyed the free floor show in this case he was too wired to do more than pace around in a tight circle, thinking furiously about Q and the metaphor of a chess game.

He wasn't fond of chess, preferring more active sports and activities, but he was decent at it when he put his mind to it and he knew it'd been an integral part of their older counterparts' friendship. He should be able to figure out which piece was which, based upon what he knew of his crew and what he knew of himself.

Why, though, did it all keep coming back to him? Q had said the Game was targeted at him, at James Tiberius Kirk, and so how did he factor into the chess metaphor? Was he the player? How could he be if he didn't consciously choose to move his pieces around? Was he a playing piece? If so, which one? He pondered each of his crew in turn, carefully evaluating who they were in relation to him and his command.

A simple process: **Piece**, **Importance, Function, Relationship to the Game. **King, Queen, Bishops, Knights, Rooks, Pawns. Working backwards was easiest.

**Piece**: Pawn. **Importance**: least. **Function**: utility piece. **Relationship**: Easily expendable. Obviously his Security, much as he hated the idea.

**Piece**: Rook. **Importance**: Second most powerful piece on the board. **Function**: Lateral moves, castling to protect King in 2-D version, vital to a quick checkmate. **Relationship**: Most desirable, after the queen. Necessary for a safe game. Castle = safety. Obviously, Bones and Spock; that was a no-brainer. Unless one of them was Old Spock; the old man had from that moment on Delta Vega been his safe house, so to speak. He left that with a mental question mark and moved on.

**Piece**: Knight. **Importance**: Moderate, but to him personally who liked odd and unpredictable plays, essential. **Function**: L-shaped play, able to jump behind enemy lines and use a forked check. Impulsive, unpredictable, but necessary to a surprise play. **Relationship**: Personally, to him as a non-linear player, essential to his game. Obviously, his navigator and pilot, Sulu and Chekov.

**Piece**: Bishop. **Importance**: Moderate. Essential to a checkmate if Rooks and Queen are out of commission. **Function**: Stand directly beside King and Queen. Diagonal moves. Between two bishops, every square on the board could eventually be covered in a short space of moves. Predictable, steady presence. When coupled in tandem with its opposing bishop, a formidable force for checkmate. **Relationship**: Essential when the front lines, rook and queen and pawn, fail. Capable of achieving checkmate when in tandem with its opposing bishop. Predictable and therefore a steadying, reliable presence in a game. Able to move in every direction and keep eyes upon several lines at once. It had to be a tandem, a team, one which had his back and could work together in perfect synchronicity to be a scary force – obviously, Spock and Uhura. He crossed Spock off the Rook list and put Old Spock there instead. Spock and Uhura had to be his bishops, standing next to and protecting his most valuable pieces.

**Piece**: Queen. **Importance**: most valuable piece. Not _vital_ to a checkmate, but a severe handicap if lost. **Function**: Directly defend and attack, able to do so in any direction. **Relationship**: Most important piece on the board. Most powerful piece, able to move in any direction to effect capture and check. Ten times as powerful as any one piece, more powerful than several combined. Not necessarily essential to a checkmate, but a crippling handicap if lost, especially in tri-D.

Wait.

_Wait_.

Spock (Old Spock) and Bones were his rooks. Sulu and Chekov, his knights, with their weird unpredictability but powerful synchronicity as pilot and navigator. Spock and Uhura – his bishops; they were a formidable force to be reckoned with. They stood as his closest advisors, his most loyal followers, his most powerful weapons when working as a team.

But the most powerful piece? The most sought-after piece, the biggest prize to an opposing side, the most feared playing piece, the one worth the most –

The lady of the game.

Lady.

_Silver _lady.

The queen was the _Enterprise_.

How could he not have seen that? His most powerful weapon, his failsafe, his security, his entire game in one formidable piece, his most sought-after prize; it had to be the ship. Q's opening gambit had destroyed his most powerful playing piece, placing him at an instant handicap and crushing the spirit of his game players before the game had even begun. It was possible to win a chess game without the queen, but it took much more work (especially in tri-D) and strategy, and was actually quite a scary thing against a skilled opponent.

But…his brain stuttered to a halt with the sudden realization. If the Queen was the _Enterprise_, and his people were the major playing pieces, that left him, Jim Kirk, the captain, as…

He was the King.

The piece which signified the end of the game, the surrender of which signaled defeat and the protection of which was every other piece's primary goal. The king was the most vital piece to the board, and also the least powerful, forced to retreat before dangerous forces or allow other pieces to intercept that danger. The entire point of having a battle force in chess was to make the sacrifices necessary to protect the King from defeat. Bones and Old Spock were the castles to his King. Spock and Uhura were his bishops, standing tall beside him and his ship to protect and defend. Sulu and Chekov were his knights in shining gold velour, their goal to protect the ship and him at the same time. His brave crew were his Security force, his (for lack of a better word, and by their own admission) pawns, who valiantly stayed out in front to bear the brunt of enemy fire and protect the vital members of the command chain.

He didn't like it, didn't like it at all – but in his gut and heart he could feel that it was true, and it was life.

He wasn't the Queen. He wasn't a knight or even a pawn.

The Captain was the King to the ship's Queen; it was only logical, and it was the truth.

He met Spock's eyes, really and truly met them, for the first time since their blowup days before, knowing that his defeat and shame would be visible in them, along with an apology for being in the wrong and refusing to admit it.

Spock had to have seen something else in them, for he stepped forward, searching Jim's face for answers. Behind him, Bones detached himself from the knot of worried crewmen and started toward them.

"I know who we are," he said quietly, glancing at his restless crew, what remained of them. "I know which pieces we are, and I know which one I am. And I know that you were right all along, and I didn't listen to you."

Spock's look of surprise made him want to laugh, but he was too scared now to do it. If he was right, then there was a way to fix this mess before any more of his crew suffered against an enemy they couldn't see. But it was a gamble, and if he was wrong…

"Captain," Spock began, looking uncertain.

Jim shook his head, laying a hand on the Vulcan's shoulder. "I get it now," he said with a bitter twist of a smile. "I don't like it, I don't even really agree with it – but I get it. And," he added, stepping back a safe distance from his friend, "if I'm right, then I'm going to end this before anyone else gets hurt."

"Sir." He wanted to smile and cry at the same time, because Spock's voice had taken on that please-don't-do-anything-else-stupid-because-I-really-can't-handle-it-today tone he'd heard far too often in the first five-year mission. "I do not see how it is possible to attain a checkmate when one has not even seen the playing pieces of his opponent." Dark eyebrows contracted in concentration. "I have yet to engender a hypothesis which will afford a favorable victory."

Jim smiled, a little sadly, and drew his phaser. "The game, Mr. Spock, is metaphorical," he explained, ignoring the look of alarm the Vulcan was giving the weapon. "The playing pieces, my crew. The queen, the _Enterprise_. The opponent…" he swallowed, and then continued, "is me."

"Sir?"

"I'm the black king," he explained. "The battle ground, the playing field if you will, is my mind – my mindset, and my opinions. In fact this whole game may be inside my head, I wouldn't be at all surprised."

"And the white king?" Spock was moving toward him now, obviously intent on making sure he didn't do anything stupid; he must look slightly manic, he guessed.

"Jim?" Yeah, probably, if Bones looked that worried as he drew near them both. "What's goin' on?"

"The white king is the man I should be," he said softly, lifting the phaser. McCoy cursed, and Spock froze in his tracks. "All this time you've been trying to protect the wrong playing piece, Spock. Look at us," he went on, gesturing with the weapon to the rocky crags around them. He had backed into a corner, Spock blocking the path that led back to the others and Bones at his side. "It's not just metaphorical, it's physical too," he laughed somewhat hoarsely, trying to clear his throat and failing. "Bishop and Rook. Morphy's Mate, one of the most common end games. You're not protecting your king, guys – you're checkmating your opponent. And wasn't that your goal all along, even before this started, to get me to see that you were right?"

"Now hold on just doggone minute –"

"Jim. I…this cannot be correct," and the stumble over the sentence structure showed more clearly than the words how disturbing the Vulcan found this entire mess.

"I think it can," he replied. "In fact I know it can. The whole blindness thing was the biggest clue of all – and we missed it. We were literally blind to the fact that all along, I've been the black king. The white king was metaphorical. Q gave me a giant clue before the game even began, and I missed it. Now, I see – no pun intended."

"You have no way of knowing you are correct," Spock murmured, obviously already divining what Jim intended to do.

"None," he admitted. "But do you want to continue this life we have now, knowing the ship and everyone aboard was destroyed because of _me_, because I needed to learn a lesson, just because you're afraid to gamble what we have left on this being reality? Spock, I've lost almost everything." He swallowed down a lump in his throat, and continued hoarsely. "Your point is taken and acknowledged, Commander – but the risk is _worth it_, this time. Can you see that?"

"No," Bones finally snapped in a flurry of angry interjection. "If you're wrong you'll abandon this crew, what's left of them, on this planet, without a leader in addition to everything else that's happened!"

"But if I'm right," he countered, "then none of it will have happened in the first place. Spock."

The Vulcan's head jerked upward, just in time to take as warning the tensing of Jim's arm. He flicked the safety onto the phaser and then tossed it across the intervening space. Spock caught it easily in his left hand and held it, trained on him.

Bones's face went chalk-white. "You're not – Spock, you can't just shoot him, he's your captain!" he bellowed, one finger jabbing angrily at the Vulcan's chest.

Spock remained calm, looking placidly down his nose at the angry physician. "I speak the truth when I say, Doctor, that I sincerely hope that will not be necessary."

"But if it is, then you do it, Commander; is that understood?"

The Vulcan's thin lips tightened almost imperceptibly. "Understood."

Dark eyes met Jim's look across the meters that separated them, understanding and apology and hope and agreement all flashing between in an unseen current, that almost electric force that bonded them into the most fearsome team in Starfleet.

"Take care of my crew, Spock," he said quietly. "Whatever you decide to do, wherever your destiny takes you in the galaxy, take care of them first."

Sudden understanding, electric and brilliant, lit up the Vulcan's dark eyes – comprehension of the tensions and reactions which had tainted their relationship for the last few weeks.

Surprised, Jim looked questioningly at his First. "Spock?"

"Captain…" Spock closed his eyes briefly, his head giving a minute shake. "Jim, I sent my declination for the _Excelsior _posting to Starfleet Command three days ago."

Jim stared at him blankly. "You _what_." Amusement tinged the Vulcan's eyes and Spock nodded, reasserting the words. "Are you _insane_?" he exclaimed, for the moment forgetting all about the dangerous game in which they were unwilling participants. "You just _blew off_ the biggest career jump I've ever _seen_, other than mine?"

"Coupla _idiots_, the both of you," McCoy snarled, arms folded, still eyeing the phaser in Spock's hand with wariness.

"I have no intention of leaving my position as your First Officer, Captain – whether that be aboard the _Enterprise _or another ship."

The simple statement warmed him to the core, an anchor of hope in the sea of uncertainty which had threatened to drown him of late. Spock was staying, against all logic and against all intelligent career moves – he was _staying_. Jim had said once that if Spock stood behind him, he knew he could face and face down anything the galaxy could throw at them – and the difference now in his mind and mentality was like night and day.

Their eyes met, and both mirrored a curt nod.

"Do it, Spock."

"Bishop to King's level three, F4," Spock said quietly.

Holding his breath, Jim nodded. He placed his hands behind his head in the typical surrender position, knelt on the rocky ground, and closed his eyes.

"And checkmate," Spock added the technicality.

Deep inside his mind, Jim tipped his metaphorical king.

* * *

><p>He was conscious of the rocky shale digging uncomfortably into his uniform trousers, the dry grit of the wind blowing across his face as he knelt, motionless. Even the distant sounds of his crew speaking and Bones shifting nervously in place seemed to fade as he held his breath.<p>

And then, as suddenly as he had noticed all that – it was gone. No blaring fanfare, no explosions of light and sound, no dramatic change-around of scenery; it all just…stopped.

Sharply pointed rocks morphed into the smooth coolness of durasteel, and the whispered wind into the soothing hum of powerful engines, vibrating deep below his knees. The thrum signaled life, wonderful and beautiful and precious life, and he knew in a nanosecond where he was. That tiny spark of hope which had been hiding in the back of his mind, not daring to venture into the darkness which had taken over, suddenly flickered into visibility once more, dancing like a shooting star in his mind.

But he knew Q's games too well to believe just yet; his breath caught and he froze, not daring to open his eyes.

"I must say, that was slightly anticlimactic, friend James," a familiar voice drawled from above him.

Jerking slightly, he rocked backward on his heels, eyes flying open. Clad in a Starfleet command uniform, Q sat on the polished table above him, legs swinging easily over the sides, as he watched with undisguised amusement.

He was in his ready room.

He was really _in his ready room_!

His disbelieving hope had to have been visible, because who wouldn't be, and the Omnipotent shook his head, tsk-ing under his breath. "So boring, James, so extremely boring! And here I was hoping you would at least have the dramatic flair to at least shoot yourself to prove the point!"

"You'll forgive me for learning my lesson in self-preservation too well," he retorted automatically. "And I think you just wrung enough melodrama and emotion out of me for an entire lifetime." He sounded strangely flat, even to his own ears, and knew he was probably in shock just a little. He couldn't keep his eyes off his gleaming ready room, its chairs and table and small beverage replicator and everything else catching his loving eye for the countless time. She was okay, she was really okay, it had all been a nightmarish game…

Finally his eyes traveled over to the wall, where a tall figure stood at attention, silently taking in everything which occurred.

Their eyes met, and Jim greeted his First with a grateful nod which was readily returned. Relief shone in stark obviousness on the Vulcan's features. Jim sighed and, closing his eyes, let himself thud back against the cold floor, reveling in the fact that his ship was still here, still functioning, still in perfect condition. He flopped a limp arm over his eyes, trying to get his emotions under control. He was about three seconds from embarrassing himself by rolling over and kissing the deck or something equally maudlin, and even if the cause was sufficient that wasn't exactly a professional command image to portray in front of the resident deity who wanted to interfere (read: be a worse busybody than a certain nosy old Vulcan) with your life.

"Well?" he asked, breathless.

Judging from the tone, the Omnipotent was slightly miffed about the lack of drama. "Well what?" was the grumbled inquiry.

"Have we passed your test, Q?" he snapped.

"You hardly won the game, mon capitaine."

"Not what I asked."

"Indeed. Captain Kirk ended the game quite legally, Q," Spock said from somewhere to Jim's left; he'd moved closer to them in the last few seconds. "End-game was the objective, not winning the game, especially as none of us were truly the minds behind the game but rather mere playing pieces within it."

"Yes, yes," Q grumbled, waving a hand in dismissal. "I have to say I thought you'd never decipher the cipher, James. And without any help from your pet Vulcan, no less!"

In one smooth motion, Jim lowered his arm, using his legs to propel him to his feet. "So I did pass."

"You did."

"Then get off my ship," he said, deathly cold.

"Ugh, so incredibly bossy. How in the galaxy do you put up with it?" Q asked plaintively, turning toward the silent Vulcan to their left.

Spock's eyebrow clearly said _I plead the fifth_. Jim smirked. But he added, anger tingeing his voice with fire, "You've done enough damage to my crew for one lifetime, Q. This was beyond traumatic, even for your sadistic little games."

"I believe you will find, friend James, that you and Commander Spock, since he was in the vicinity, will be the only ones who remember the entire affair," Q said with a mysterious smile. "It is only fair, after all, that you should bear the brunt of remembering every single detail of your trip into Wonderland, don't you agree? Perhaps it will make you that much more cautious when next your First Officer suggests you not throw yourself in harm's way unduly."

"Computer, what is the current Stardate and time?" Jim snapped at the table.

"Stardate 2263.6, 1120 hours."

They'd only been gone from the Bridge for ten minutes since he'd hauled Spock in to have their little tiff out, out of sight of the Bridge crew. "We never left this room," he realized aloud.

"Of course you didn't. The game, as you so eloquently put it, was all in your mind, James. And such unpleasant situations your mind can come up with, too!"

"Enough," he interrupted, squaring off against the Omnipotent, fueled by fury at the knowledge that Q had destroyed his ship and basically tortured his crew, even if it had all been in his own head. "We won your game, Q. I –"

A sudden pounding on the doors stopped him in his tracks, and he glanced incredulously at the firmly sealed opening. Q's smile widened as his Security Chief's voice snapped like knives against the thick door.

"Captain! Captain, you all right in there?"

"Computer, override lock mechanism for Captain's Ready Room One," Spock spoke into the wall console.

_"Unable to comply."_

"Captain?" The sharp voice faded slightly amid a scuffle. "Get those beams on that door _now_, Fischer," followed by the sounds of torches being applied to the door seams.

"Your crew is loyal to a fault to you, James Tiberius Kirk," Q said quietly, losing the edge of animosity which had still characterized his words until now. "See that you do not disappoint them."

And with a flash of light, he was gone.

Jim blinked, and stared at Spock for a second in surprise. "That was it?"

"Apparently. Computer, override lock mechanism for Captain's Ready Room One," the Vulcan attempted once more.

_"Override accepted."_The doors opened, amid a chorus of yelps and one dropped torch which went rolling across the deck before its safety features shut itself off. A pile of his Security men half-fell, half-rushed into the room, phasers drawn.

"Ah…Captain?" Fischer's voice was puzzled. "We got a report of massive unidentified energy surges in this room during the last ten minutes…"

"And given that you and the missus have been at each other's throats all week we weren't sure what was going on," Giotto drawled from behind them, where he was leaning against the door jamb, smirking as he holstered his weapon.

Jim resisted the urge to giggle, given that the tone was borderline insubordinate (but within acceptable levels for the familiarity between them after serving this long together), and Spock's eyebrows poked at his hairline.

"At ease, men," he finally said with a grin. "Everything's fine. More than fine," he murmured, catching Spock's eye. His First – his friend – nodded, a quicksilver ghost of a smile twitching at thin lips. "Everything's _awesome_."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Epilogue coming soon<strong>_


	15. Epilogue

**_Epilogue_**

"I guess I'm lucky that anyone believes me," he said ruefully, picking at the plate of pseudo-pasta that the replicator had graced him with (even Scotty's not-legal-by-a-long-shot engineering magic couldn't make it taste like anything but cheese-flavored silly string).

"We don't, we believe the hobgoblin," was the dry reply from his left. "Only _you_ would be able to drag him along with you into the screwed-up playground that is Jim Kirk's mind."

He elbowed Bones, causing the doctor to slosh the contents of his water cup over his scrubs.

"Brat."

"Grouch."

"Children," Spock added sternly in perfect sync, before the bickering could escalate.

Across the table, the older version of himself laughed, and Ambassador Spock regarded them with entirely unVulcan glee. Jim shook off the feeling that someone had just walked over his grave - _flown_ over it? - and grinned ruefully.

"'Sides, that nice sexy tan Spock is sportin' is a dead giveaway you weren't aboard ship for a while," Bones added with a wicked smirk, munching loudly on a carrot stick. "Chapel's been eyein' you across the Mess, y'know."

Said suntan took on a greenish tint as Spock choked on his tea.

The elderly Ambassador glanced fondly at his younger self before rescuing the conversation with a question of his own. "I am at a loss, Jim, to know why you never once suspected myself and Admiral Kirk of being the instigators of the _Enterprise_'s self-destruct activation. If your story is correct, the idea never occurred to you that there were indeed those remaining on board who could voice-override the safety precautions."

Jim snorted. "It didn't occur to me because I know better," he retorted. "There's nothing in the world that would _ever_ be important enough to me to destroy this ship. Nothing. Nada. I'd just never be able to do it."

Kirk opened his mouth to reply, oddly enough looking like he was going to contradict this, but then shut it abruptly with a strangled yelp, suspiciously as if someone had just kicked him under the table.

But the aging ambassador only blinked innocently at the look of irritation. "Be that as it may, Jim, I suspect you have not heard the last of this Q individual," he quietly changed the subject. "Such beings tend to develop particular fixations, and I should be on my guard against becoming one such fixation."

"Like I can prevent it," he grumbled, darting a glance at Spock, who only gave him an eyebrow-shrug. Jim spread both arms with affected drama, narrowly missing Bones's water glass. "Can I help it if everybody in the universes wants a piece of this?" he asked plaintively.

His friend looked sourly across the table at an amused-and-not-bothering-to-hide-it-because-at-one-hundred-plus-years-old-who-cares Ambassador Spock. "Does he tone it down at all as he gets older?"

"Negative."

An indignant sputter. "I do too!"

"I believe the expression is, _not for lack of trying_," the elderly Vulcan replied serenely.

Jim grinned and elbowed Spock - his Spock - companionably, receiving a tolerant Vulcan not-quite-eyeroll in return. "You're gonna have your hands full with me, you know that?" he said.

"Unfortunately, I am quite aware," was the dry reply. "My mental health greatly anticipates the day you grow disillusioned with your own popularity."

"Hey!"

"Or the day you push Starfleet's buttons one too many times and they slap you into a teaching chair at the Academy," Bones interjected with a scowl.

Jim shuddered, and peripherally saw his older self doing the same, for whatever reason. Weird. "Well, at least I can't be any worse than the last Kobayashi Maru instructor," he said slyly, leaning back in his chair. "Now that guy, was the biggest pain in the -"

"Finish that sentence at your peril. _Sir_."

"Oh, come on, what're you gonna do to me with three witnesses in the room?"

"Annnnd that's our cue. Would you care for a game of chess, Spock?" his older self said loudly.

"Indeed," the ambassador replied, dark eyes twinkling. "Preferably in a recreation room several decks away?"

Kirk grinned. "You read my mind, my Vulcan friend. Doctor McCoy, would you like to referee us or them?"

The doctor's glare could peel paint. "Some choice," he growled, shoving his tray into the wall recycling chute and stalking away. "As if one set of you isn't bad enough on an old man's blood pressure. Who did I tick off in a previous life to deserve you idiots in surround-sound?" he yelled over one shoulder, sending both remaining humans into a fit of laughter.

Once their older counterparts had left, Jim shoved his half-eaten tray away and half-turned in his chair toward his First, who was still calmly picking the replicated mango chunks out of a dismal-looking fruit cup.

"In all seriousness, Commander," he said quietly, and his tone got Spock's instant and undivided attention. He bit his lip for a moment, and then continued recklessly, "I wish you hadn't turned down the _Excelsior_ captaincy."

One eyebrow inclined slightly. "May I ask why, Captain?"

"Because you…well, you probably just shot any chance you'll ever have of getting a command of your own," he replied. Twisting a disposable napkin between his fingers, he sighed. "Starfleet Command is still pretty prejudiced against non-human starship commanders, we both know that. And you turning down that kind of promotion…they're liable to never ask you again."

"Would that be such a tragedy?"

"Not for the Enterprise, no," he replied with a half-smile. "But it would have been a great chance for you to show your own people what you're capable of…"

The tension between Spock's eyebrows relaxed suddenly. "My people, Captain," he repeated.

Jim shrugged. "I know it's been years now, but you can't tell me you don't still get flak sometimes about not 'doing your part' on New Vulcan. Choosing to stay in Starfleet when even your _vrekasht_ people returned to rebuild your culture (1) - I never told you, did I, during that first mission, that I know what a sacrifice that was?"

"You did not, because it was not necessary." Spock gave a minute half-shrug with one shoulder, before studiously examining his fruit cup. "As to my people, Captain…one might say that I have the rare privilege of holding allegiance to two worlds."

"Or the rare curse," Jim replied with gentle tact.

The dark head inclined in gracious acceptance. "Whatever label one affixes to it," the Vulcan answered dismissively. "Rest assured, Captain, that I am where I wish to be, with the ship, the crew, and the captain I have chosen. I believe that nothing can, or will, ever give me cause to regret that…admittedly illogical action."

Spock might as well have been wearing an _I Heart Humans_ t-shirt, so drastic was such a sentiment for a Vulcan to say. Jim dropped his eyes in recognition of the huge sacrifice.

"Well," he said softly, smiling up at his First. "Never let it be said again that I argued with my First Officer."

"I do not believe it _could_ be said. Not successfully, at any rate."

"Impertinent Vulcan."

"Illogical human."

"You know you love it."

"To appropriate Dr. McCoy's unique grasp of Standard, _in your dreams._"

-0-

Several universes away, a certain member of the Q continuum paused as a ripple of splintered Time brushed against his omniscient consciousness.

"Now _there's_ a novel idea," he murmured, rubbing his hands gleefully. "_À bientôt, mon capitaine_." (1)

* * *

><p><strong>FINIS<strong>

**(or is it?)**

* * *

><p>(1) Vrekasht is the Vulcan word for outcast. I suspect that in the XI universe, even excommunicated Vulcans (like Sybok was in TOS movie continuum, for example) would have been let back into society, for practical reasons if nothing else.<p>

(2) Fr., _Until next time_


End file.
